Childhood
by Lucrecia LeVrai
Summary: Take a look at the title... yes, it's all about Seymour, what else did you expect from me? Sit back and enjoy! UPDATED: Seymour's mother makes one of the most fateful decisions in her life. A separate minific of sorts.
1. Grandfather

__

Childhood

yet another Seymour-centric _Final Fantasy X _story, written by

Lucrecia LeVrai

* * *

Disclaimer: Seymour and his parents belong to Square-Enix; all other characters are mine.

Author's Notes: Why did I start a new fic when there are so many others I need to finish first, you ask? Well, it's mostly because this particular story was written about three, four months ago… and, honestly, I thought I'd go crazy without posting it soon. So there, I put it on this site, instead of updating one of my older works... just don't kill me, okay? ;) It's only a few chapters long and should be finished quickly… I hope.

Anything else I want to say before you start reading? Ah, yes – writing serious stories about Seymour has most definitely become kind of… my little, personal mission. Well, the game was released such a long time ago, but there are still so few good fics about him! And it's _soooo_ (censored) frustrating!

-glares at all those Seymour fans who are too lazy to write anything, then punches herself a couple of times for being equally lazy-

Ah, but let's not forget that some people actually do write and/or read Seymour stories… and I'd like to thank them all! You guys are great!

...Riiiight. Back to work, I guess. Please, ignore the lame beginning and enjoy the story. :))

* * *

Part One

_Grandfather_

* * *

Bevelle was definitely one of the most spectacular, busiest places Seymour had ever seen. Colorfully dressed people, masked soldiers, broad alleys, incredibly tall buildings, running water… Mesmerized by the fascinating sights the city offered, the six-year-old child found himself practically glued to the carriage window. The vehicle moved slowly through one of Bevelle's most representative districts, but the pace was still too fast to the boy's liking. He scowled, tapping his long fingers against the cool pane, in a characteristic gesture he must have clearly learnt from his father.

"What is it, honey?"

A bit reluctantly, he looked away from the window, meeting his mother's suspiciously amused gaze. "Can't we tell the driver to slow down a bit?"

Lady Avalon gave her son a small, affectionate smile. "Not really, dear. It's getting late and we have to hurry."

"It's _early_," he protested. "See? We can even take a walk–"

She silenced him by putting a finger to his lips. "We don't have time for that, Seymour, at least not today. But we'll stay here for a couple of days, I've already told you that. So, if you really want to, we can go for a walk tomorrow… Isn't it a bit too hot for that, anyway?"

"Why not _today_?"

She laughed quietly. "Can't you be a little more patient…?"

Unfortunately, there was no point in arguing with her. She was kind, gentle and understanding… but when she made a decision, she simply wouldn't change her mind, no matter what. Sighing heavily to demonstrate his disappointment, Seymour nodded, once again turning his head towards the window.

They were only passing through Bevelle, on their way to some far-away island called Baaj, where they were supposed to stay for at least a couple of months, possibly much longer. They hadn't taken too many servants with them; about forty, to be exact, and considering Lord Jyscal's general wealth and prestige, it was not a very large number. Most of these people were human, especially now, after Avalon had forcefully dismissed nearly half of the Guado guards.

The journey was tiring, but it proceeded quite smoothly, without too many difficulties. Truth to be told, Seymour didn't really understand the reason behind this sudden turn of events in his life; he only knew that it had been his father's idea all along. Everything had happened too quickly, anyway. One day Lord Jyscal had simply announced that his wife and child should leave Guadosalam for their own good, and about forty-eight hours later, Seymour had already found himself on some large boat, sailing down the Moonflow. It had been _very_ confusing, to say the least – in fact, it still was. Mother stubbornly refused to tell him anything; she had only asked him once, if he had missed home… to which, naturally, he had replied 'yes'. She hadn't spoken again for a long while, after that. And, ever since then, they hadn't really talked about it anymore.

They would stay in Bevelle for a couple of days. It used to be _her_ home once, he knew; so now, when she was finally able to see the city – for the first time in seven years – she wanted to visit a couple of old friends. Seymour wasn't looking forward to this; he already knew what such meetings looked like. Usually, it began with some stranger (in most cases, it was a woman about his mother's age, wearing as much diamond jewelry as her spine and neck would allow) gasping and squealing in delight at the mere sight of her long-absent friend. Then there would be tears and rushed words, and after some necessary introductions – why did all these women _always_ have to look so strangely at him, anyway? – he would be left with some caretakers in a completely unknown place, where he wasn't allowed to touch anything. Without having much to do, he often simply ended up asleep on a sofa, with a worried servant looming over him all the time, until his mother came to pick him up – and then there were even more weird glances from his mother's friend, but it didn't really matter, for they were finally _leaving_, thank Yevon!

No, Seymour didn't like these meetings at all. Besides, a nap in somebody's private chambers wasn't exactly the worst scenario possible, for sometimes his mother insisted that Seymour actually _ate a proper dinner_, meaning that he would be forced to come to the table. And the adults talked, and talked, and laughed, and talked even more, completely forgetting about his presence, while he had to sit still and mind his manners, and be polite, and being polite meant _absolutely no yawning_–!

For a six-year-old boy it was pure torture.

Still looking out of the carriage window, Seymour scowled, suddenly feeling quite angry at the whole world, his mother in particular. The upcoming week in Bevelle would probably look very much like this, he realized, and for a moment he was ready to throw a fit, to whine and cry like a little kid, until mother agreed not to visit anyone this time… but she never listed to his complaints, anyway, so he bit his tongue, concentrating on the outside world instead. The carriage was moving much slower now, and the boy wondered if they were perhaps going to stop any time soon. He closed his eyes, remembering his mother's words from a short while ago, when he had asked her about their destination.

Well, it seemed that _today_ was going to look a bit different, after all.

Ever since she had told him about visiting his grandfather, Seymour couldn't help feeling excited… and terribly confused. Mother had never mentioned her _other_ family before; the boy had somehow assumed that she had none, not that he had ever given it much thought, anyway. As far as he had been concerned, his family consisted of only three people, but obviously, he had been mistaken – his grandfather lived somewhere in this city, and today Seymour was going to see him for the first time in his life. Unfortunately, he had absolutely no idea what to expect.

"Mother…?" he finally decided to ask, keeping his voice quiet. "What's he like?"

Avalon stirred, the question must have startled her. She blinked at her son, not quite understanding, looking for all the world like a person who had just awoken from a deep trance. "…Who?"

"My grandfather," Seymour frowned. Something didn't feel right, but he couldn't tell what it was. He could only sense his mother's rising nervousness, and this puzzled him a bit. She was always such a calm, self-controlled person, very much unlike the tense woman that was sitting next to him right now. In fact, he had never seen her so… _frightened_ before.

"You will soon see for yourself, Seymour," she lowered her gaze, absently smoothing out her dark dress.

"Is he nice?"

Avalon laughed softly at her son's childish, naive question. Then, as if remembering something, she sighed, her face suddenly growing darker.

"Mother?" The boy tugged at her sleeve, pouting adorably as he demanded a reply. It brought another smile to Avalon's lips.

"Most of the time," she said, with a strange, far-away look in her eyes, "…but he's also a very strict person. Please, remember to behave properly."

Seymour nodded, apparently satisfied with her answer, and once again turned his head to the window, resuming his people-watch. Avalon thought that the matter was finished, when all of a sudden the boy spoke once again, startling her even more.

"…But we won't be staying with him. Why?"

"We can't," she shook her head in response, inwardly cursing the child's perceptiveness. "We promised your father we would go to Baaj, remember?"

_We?_ Honestly, Seymour couldn't recall making any promises, but he nodded anyway. "Why?"

Lady Avalon sighed. Heavily. And when she spoke, there was some odd, unusual tiredness in her voice. "Because it's safe there, honey."

Stubbornly refusing to let the matter drop, the boy looked away from the window, meeting her troubled gaze. "Isn't it safe _here_?"

Ah. It hurt, didn't it? Smiling despite herself, she ruffled her son's beautiful hair, smooth and soft to the touch, yet already starting to grow in a typical Guado fashion. "Don't worry about it so much, Seymour. You'll like it in Baaj… I promise."

* * *

His grandfather's house had turned out to be a huge mansion situated in one of the most luxurious parts of the city, but at the moment Seymour couldn't care less. The heat – it was the middle of the Harvest Month, after all – and the long ride had made him feel sleepy. He yawned and stretched in his seat as the carriage rode past the gates, crossing a wide yard and eventually stopping in front of the main entrance. One of the guards immediately went to open the door, and much to their relief, the two passengers were finally able to step outside.

Lady Avalon, who had recently become quite tired of splendor and extravagance, wore a modest, relatively simple green dress – one that certainly didn't look its price – and almost no jewelry, except for a golden necklace and a pair of small earrings. Her dark hair was set in thin, elaborate braids, some twisted around her head, some falling down to her thin shoulders. She was only twenty-nine, yet looked a couple of years older. The life in Guadosalam, where the sun hardly ever reached, a diet that consisted of no meat (Guado customs were very strict about that) and the lack of proper exercise took their toll on her once beautiful body.

Her six-year-old son looked considerably less energetic than usual, too; slightly disheveled after such a long ride. He kept yawning, not really bothering to cover his mouth, until Avalon glared at him pointedly. A moment later, she sighed and knelt down, absently running her fingers over the creased sleeves of his white, gold-lined shirt. When she was satisfied with the result, she put a hand on the child's shoulder and hugged him briefly. "Come, Seymour. Remember to be a good boy, okay?"

Seymour nodded distractedly, without paying too much attention to his mother's words. At this point, he was beginning to feel rather interested in his surroundings. He was surprised to discover that a large part of his grandfather's mansion was actually built of wood; not of stone, like all big human houses he had seen so far. It made him feel almost at home. Almost… for unlike all houses in Guadosalam, this one was made of a very different kind of wood. It didn't breathe. It didn't feel. It was _dead_.

He didn't really know why, but the thought made him shudder, and he reached for his mother's hand, instinctively seeking protection. He was still clinging to her warm fingers when a couple of unknown servants led them both inside, through the main door, into a bright, spacious hall. Another surprise awaited him there; it was a large, white fountain. Well, people didn't usually have fountains _inside _their houses, at least not from what Seymour could tell, so the sight made him wonder what kind of silly person his grandfather was. Besides, the spring seemed a bit unusual in itself, too – it was a white statue of a maid, holding a basket in her outstretched hand, surrounded by a small shoal of fish that swarmed at her feet, with water spurting out of their open mouths. Seymour knew that fish were not domestic animals, at least not in Macalania, so…

"Mother?" he asked curiously, raising his head to look at her. "Why is this girl feeding–"

"Shhh," she gave his fingers a light squeeze. "Not now, honey."

She didn't even meet his gaze and the boy felt horribly ignored, but something in his mother's voice made him refrain from protesting loudly. Meanwhile, she had turned towards the servants, who had brought them here. "Please, leave," she said politely, though her pose showed clearly that she was used to giving orders. "It is a very private matter."

In fact, Avalon was so distracted that Seymour easily slipped his hand out of her loose grasp. However, just before he could take a single step towards the fountain, a frightfully cold voice cut the air, causing the boy to all but jump behind his mother's slender frame.

"So," the voice said, practically dripping with hostility, "you actually dare to show your face here, after all these years."

* * *

The man who had addressed Avalon in such a terribly rude manner stood a bit to the left, at the top of broad, wooden stairs. 'Huge' was the first word that crossed Seymour's mind, but it wasn't exactly the most suitable adjective in this case – the man was very tall, yes, but not overly muscular. His face seemed sharp, stiff with anger and almost untouched by wrinkles. In fact, even in spite of his graying hair, Lord Gwyan didn't look half as old as Seymour had imagined him to be.

And he was _very_ furious, too, doing absolutely nothing to conceal his displeasure, glaring down at Seymour's mother with contempt written all over his face. For a brief moment his gaze swept over the boy as well, and Seymour trembled, clinging to the green robe for his dear life. Only then did it finally hit him that his mother hadn't even objected to such a harsh greeting, as if she had somehow accepted it from the start… but with her head up high and eyes narrowed into slits, she didn't appear defeated, either. In fact, her semi-calm posture practically screamed of stubbornness and defiance. The six-year-old boy found it quite reassuring.

Still clutching his mother's dress in both hands (though, as the silence prolonged, his grip loosened a bit), Seymour waited, more or less patiently, for the man to throw them both out. After all, he looked so much like Father, when he was angry… and when Father was _this_ angry – thank Yevon, it didn't happen very often – he would always throw people out without as much as a second glance, regardless of who they were.

However, Lord Gwyan did nothing of the sort. After a very long pause, he spoke once again, this time in a slightly less hostile, yet still frightfully cold voice. "We need to talk… in private."

The woman didn't reply at once; in fact, she didn't reply at all. And when she finally looked down at her son, there was a sad, helpless look in her eyes. He tensed, letting go of her dress.

"Seymour…" she said softly, "…please, wait for me outside, will you?"

Swallowing a lump in his throat, the boy nodded, quite reluctantly. He had a bad feeling about this… a very bad feeling, indeed. He could still sense cold fury behind Lord Gwyan's expressionless facade; so much hostility that it really scarred him. He was genuinely afraid of what this man – despite being his grandfather and all – might do to his mother, and yet he had no choice but to bow and walk away.

* * *

They were both so loud that even a thick, wooden door couldn't muffle all their shouting. Leaning against that very door, Seymour listened in to the conversation, his anger, fear and confusion growing with each furious yell. He was still too young to comprehend even half of the things they were saying, but what he did understand was more than enough.

Lord Gwyan hated his father, that much he could tell. The man was also furious at his mother for marrying…

**-that greedy, antisocial bastard-**

…who, as Seymour quickly found out…

**-will eventually tire of you and leave you for good-**

…unless, of course…

**-he already did-**

…and it was all because his mother had…

**-made the biggest mistake of your life-**

…possibly by…

**-believing in everything that son of a bitch says!-**

It was the first time Seymour had heard _anyone_ talk this way about his father. And judging from what he could hear from behind the closed door, his mother was also upset with these words… terribly so. She tried to fight back, to reason with the man in a semi-calm manner, but she was quickly loosing her patience and her temper with it.

Their shouts were growing louder and louder.

**-well, I don't care! It's _my_ life and I can do whatever I want-**

His mother's voice, this time… so furious, so hysterical. He had never heard her yell at somebody with such contempt before… and it was absolutely terrifying. _Somebody, please… make them stop… _Seymour thought, inwardly torn between panic and anger. Just then, though, his grandfather's voice rang;

**-You should just send the damn kid back to him and stay in Bevelle!-**

Panic won. Seymour wanted to scream, run back into the room, make them _both _fall silent… but he found himself unable to. His traitorous legs simply wouldn't cooperate. He sank to the floor, head hanging low, hands clenched into fists.

What if his mother actually _listened_ to these words? What if she really decided to send him back to Guadosalam… alone? Sure, he missed his father, but the idea of leaving _her_… for good…

"No…" what was meant as a scream, came out only as a broken whisper.

The shouting eventually faded into silence, but Seymour didn't notice. The adults must have left the room, using some other door, but he no longer cared. He didn't even realize he had been crying, until, several minutes later, some servant found him slumped on the floor in a very ungraceful manner.

"_Shimoa-sama!"_

Yevon must have taken pity on him, sparing him a great deal of humiliation, because it wasn't a completely unfamiliar person, just one of the Guado guards. Slowly looking up, Seymour met the man's anxious gaze.

"_I'm fine…_" he replied a bit shakily. The tears in his eyes stung a bit; he wiped them away with his bare fist, already finding the strength to calm down. He had to maintain his dignity, didn't he…? "_It's nothing_."

The servant only stared at him, as if unsure of what to say next… and suddenly, Seymour felt himself _hate_ the man. He quickly pulled himself up, practically _glaring_ at the tall Guado with all intensity a six-year-old child could muster. It didn't make the pity go away from the man's eyes, though.

"_Shimoa-sama, please, come with me,_" the servant bowed slightly, remembering his place at last. "_Avalon-sama will be staying here for the night. I'll take you to your room_."

* * *

There was a bed in his room, of course, one that was large enough to accommodate perhaps up to three people his size. As soon as the door closed behind him, Seymour literally threw himself at the white mattress, landing softly on his stomach. For a short moment he just lay there, unmoving, with his nose pressed into the smooth sheets, until his lungs eventually started to protest and he had to roll onto his back.

He was no longer crying, but the deep, heavy uneasiness remained. He still felt upset and scared. Try as he might, he could not imagine a life without his mother. Perhaps it was a bit different in his father's case, but she… _she_ hardly ever left his side, even if she was quite absent-minded at times. In a way, he took her presence for granted.

He was so used to her _always_ being there for him that… that the idea of her leaving him… to stay here with this man… was simply unthinkable. Nevertheless, he couldn't stop himself from thinking, and it made the tears instantly return to his eyes. It took a considerable amount of blinking to hold them back. He might have even fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of that, because the next thing he knew, the shadows in his room were much, much longer.

The nap didn't really make him feel better in any way. He was still frightened. And miserable. And angry. And it was all _that person's_ fault…! The boy scowled, clenching his hands into fists. Yes, he needed to speak to him… as soon as possible. Preferably _before_ his mother started to listen to his stupid ideas…

It was a very impulsive, spontaneous decision, and the moment it was made, the door to Seymour's room opened, revealing a dark, thin silhouette of a woman.

"Mother!" The boy jumped to his feet and ran across the chamber, falling straight into Avalon's arms. All of his previous bravery suddenly gone, he desperately hung onto her waist, seemingly unable to let go.

"It's okay, Seymour. I'm right here."

"Promise me you won't leave me!" he cried, burying his face into her dress. "Promise me you won't stay here and make me go home without you!"

"Seymour…" the woman's eyes widened in a guilty, unpleasant realization. "Why… When did you–"

"Mother!" he insisted, without letting her finish. "You have to _promise_!"

"Silly," she whispered a moment later, bending down to reach one of her son's ears. "Of course I'd never leave you. I love you." Still shaking slightly, the boy mumbled something incomprehensible in reply – and she simply held him close, waiting for the tears to stop falling. Just as she had expected, he calmed down rather quickly, finally letting go of her robe.

"Better…?"

"Mhm…" Glancing up, Seymour discovered that his mother had also been crying, though not so recently. Her eyes were dry by now, but they still seemed a bit red and swollen; the small wrinkles around the corners of her mouth looked deeper than usual, too. In fact, she was doing her best to appear cheerful and collected, but it didn't quite work. "Mother, it's alright… you can go now, if you want to…"

Maybe she really wanted to be left alone for a while, because, after a brief consideration, she nodded slightly. "I'm sorry, Seymour… I'll be back soon, okay? It's a bit too early to go to bed, yet already too late for you to play outside… and besides, you must be very tired." She paused uneasily, struggling for words. "I know it was a rather unpleasant day… but I promise we'll do something nice tomorrow… together, hm? What do you think?" She stroked his cheek. "Deal?"

"Deal," he nodded, eyes lighting up a bit.

"If you need anything, just ask someone, okay?"

"Mhm… but you'll be back? In the evening?"

"…Of course," smiling apologetically, she brushed her lips against Seymour's forehead in a soft, gentle kiss. Then she left, leaving him alone in the warm, sun-bathed room.

After she was gone, the boy once again sat down on the bed, carefully wiping the tears away, until he felt calm enough. A couple of minutes later, he tiptoed to the door, discovering, much to his relief, that they hadn't been locked from the outside.

* * *

Though quite smart for his age, Seymour was still a child, so his plan was actually very simple. He was going to find his damn grandfather and give him a piece of his mind. As soon as was out of his room, he approached the nearest male servant – he knew, from what little experience he had, that men didn't usually ask stupid, unnecessary questions – and asked the said person to bring him to Lord Gwyan chambers. The butler merely raised an eyebrow at him, but Seymour, straightening himself up, announced, in the most serious and authoritative voice he could muster, that it was an _order_. Well, he might have been just a little boy, yet the huge difference between being 'just a little boy' and 'a little boy who is actually a maester's son and probably also his heir' didn't go beyond the servant's notice… and, as a result, Seymour quickly found himself in front of a huge, heavy oak door that led to his grandfather's study.

For a couple of long moments he simply stared at the brass handle, summoning his courage. Finally, he took a deep breath and knocked at the wood. A muffled and dry 'come in!' was his only reply. Swallowing hard, for he still felt quite hesitant, the boy pushed the door open.

The room looked surprisingly small, maybe because it was so cramped, filled with books from floor to ceiling. It had only one window, which was now wide open. In front of that window stood a large desk – Lord Gwyan sat there, with his back turned on the door, obviously engaged in some paperwork. "Well? What is it?" he barked, not even bothering to move and see who had just come in.

It was already too late for second thoughts… but, exactly at that moment, Seymour discovered a few essential flaws in his plan. After all, coming to his grandfather's study and actually _talking_ to him were two very different things. What was he going to do, _shout_ at the man…? It suddenly didn't seem like such a great idea…

Meanwhile, the elderly nobleman had grown impatient. Violently slapping an open palm against the desk, he began to turn around in his seat. "What on earth do you–" he didn't even manage to finish his sentence as his eyes finally fell on the child.

The room was suddenly so quiet that only a soft swish of curtains could be heard. Seymour found himself unable to move, unable to say anything, unable to look away from his grandfather's gray eyes. And then, after a couple of long, agonizing moments, Lord Gwyan spoke once again, his expression unreadable.

"Oh. It's _you_," he began slowly. "What are _you_ doing here, I wonder…?"

Seymour bit his lower lip, just to stop it from trembling. Memories from a short while ago started to rise in the back of his mind, slowly at first, yet running faster with each passing second. His mother's hands, trembling slightly, when she was getting out of the carriage. Her absent gaze. His grandfather's furious voice. The wooden door, so rough against his back. The shouting… Suddenly, all his previous frustration flooded back to him, and Seymour could no longer stop himself from shaking – this time in anger.

"H-how could you!" he cried out. "You shouldn't have said all those nasty things! Now she's all upset! You made her sad! Go and apologize!"

The man was up on his feet somewhere in the middle of Seymour's childish outburst. Covering the room in a few quick strides, he stopped right in front of the boy, who fell silent at once, taking an involuntary step back from the tall, menacing adult. For a brief moment, neither of them moved or said anything; then, unexpectedly, Lord Gwyan crouched down, leaning closer towards his grandson, until their faces were only an arm's length apart.

"My, my…" He smirked, tilting his head to the side. "Quite a spoiled brat, aren't we? Those were definitely big words for such a small boy. Where are your manners? Has nobody taught you how to address your elders properly?"

"I-I'm sorry for being rude…" Seymour's cheeks turned slightly pink, his grandfather's casual remark made him feel somewhat embarrassed. However, as quickly as it had disappeared, the defiant look returned to his eyes. "B-but, Gwyan-_dono_, you should still apologize…!"

"'Gwyan-_dono_'… Why, yes…" The man cursed under his breath, his lips curled up in a bitter smile. "After all, we _are_ complete strangers to each other, aren't we?"

Seymour couldn't think of any answer that actually made sense, so he wisely stayed silent. He was already beginning to really, _really_ regret his decision to come here… when Lord Gwyan spoke again, this time in a fairly calm manner.

"Oh, well… forget about that," he shrugged. "Heh, I see that you have at least _some_ spirit… I must congratulate my daughter next time I see her." His serious expression belied the subtle mockery in his voice. "…Your name is Seymour, right?" The child nodded slowly. "And you are what… five, six?"

"Six," he squirmed under the piercing, gray gaze, already praying for this strange conversation to end. However, it seemed that the man wasn't finished with him, not yet.

Ignoring his startled yelp, as well as his indignant stare, Gwyan unceremoniously took Seymour's chin in one of his hands, lifting it up, moving it towards the light. He studied the child's features, finally having to admit that his little grandson didn't look much different from an ordinary, human boy. Sure, he had blue hair – and violet eyes, for that matter – yet it didn't really made him ugly, quite the opposite. Besides, his young face was still smooth, unmarred by veins that normally lined all Guado faces, after they went through puberty.

Seymour wordlessly endured the unpleasant examination; only his fear kept him from pushing the man's hand away. Well, physically, it wasn't all that bad, yet there was something unnerving in his grandfather's gaze… and it felt worse, _much worse_ than the stares he usually received from other people.

"Hmph. At least you don't look exactly like that bastard," Lord Gwyan eventually said. There was a trace of anger in his voice… and perhaps some sadness, too.

"Father is–" Seymour began, but the elderly man silenced him simply by putting a hand on his shoulder. The boy blinked in surprise; such a gentle gesture, coming from this huge, brusque person, was something totally unexpected.

"Alright… Seymour," the man sighed, then paused for a long time… and when he spoke, his voice was troubled, heavy. "I have to admit that I do feel a bit confused about everything. And that it was rather brave of you to come here, but you should not pry into other people's affairs. I'm not sure if I will apologize to your mother."

"But–" Once again, the child wasn't allowed to finish.

"I'm sure you will understand this when you grow older. Now go." Seymour didn't move. "Go!" Lord Gwyan repeated, gently but firmly pushing the boy back.

Already in the doorway, Seymour turned around to take one final look at his grandfather, who was now facing the window. No, he decided quickly, adults didn't make any sense at all.

* * *

End of Part One

* * *

Coming up next – Part Two, _Escape from Zanarkand_

* * *

Author's Notes:

1) It's very, _very_ hard to write from a six-year-old's point of view… and it didn't go very well, I know. Anyway, I tried to concentrate on Seymour's feelings as much as possible, purposely ignoring the adults' perspective on what was happening. Basically, I wanted to show _why_ was his childhood so unhappy, even before his mother's death. Unlike some other fic writers, I don't think that he actually experienced much physical or verbal abuse (just think of his father's position; people would be simply too afraid to do or say anything), but it didn't change the fact that he had to deal with many other unpleasant things: his parents' separation, people's weird stares, constant tension, a growing feeling of insecurity… and so on. That alone makes a child's life bad enough, doesn't it?

2) Nobody knows the name of Seymour's mother; it's _never_ mentioned in the game, not even when you have that single opportunity to talk to her… a real mystery, huh? And no, I don't think it's 'Anima', 'cause it's only what her aeon's called, nothing more… Anyway, she needed a proper name, _soooo_…

-crickets chirp, people stare-

Heh, why 'Avalon', I have honestly no idea… but I guess it simply _sounds_ nice… (and yeah, all associations with _King Arthur_ are correct).

(PS: It's actually pretty sad, the way they discriminate _all_ mothers in FFX. Just think of Tidus, Yuna, Seymour, Rikku – do we eventually get to know their fathers? Why, yes! Do we even know their mothers' names…? Nope. …Gyah! Stupid patriarchal society!)

3) Gwyan is actually a good guy, in case you're wondering. He may not seem very nice at first, but… just how would _you_ react, if your beloved daughter ran away with a freak, disappearing for long seven years? And then, when you are already beginning to suspect that she is dead, she happily turns up on your doorstep, as if nothing has even happened? Worse still, she brings a kid with her, and that kid is kind of _different_ from the perfect, little grandson you always imagined? Well, I guess that most people would be – at least initially – rather pissed at the said daughter, don't you think? ;)

4) Now, about this chapter…

Silly? -nod, nod-

Sappy? -nod, nod-

Strange? -nod, nod-

Well, that's what I think… but what's _your_ opinion? Please, review… and if you don't feel like writing a long comment, just drop me a line or two, saying that you were here to read this fic… please? -smiles hopefully-

* * *

A short note to all people who aren't Japanese-obsessed freaks like me:

'Shimoa' -the Japanese (read: Guado) version of Seymour's name.

'dono' -an old, extremely formal honorific, reserved for people you respect and want to be polite to; translates roughly into 'lord/lady'. Used mostly by older people.

'sama' -another respectful honorific, added to the names of people you admire/worship/serve/obey.

'roushi' -maester.

'taichou' -captain.

'chichiue' -a polite, archaic way of addressing/referring to one's father.

'tousan' -short for 'otousan', which is how you may speak of somebody else's/address your own father. It's a fairly neutral term.

'kaasan' -mother (from 'okaasan'), see above.

'hashi' -chopsticks. Also called 'o-hashi', when one wants to be formal, polite and respectful.

'haori' -to make a long story short, it's a coat/overrobe worn by samurai; often decorated with family crests and such...

Well, that's all you will need for now. I'll add more stuff later, if necessary.


	2. Escape from Zanarkand

Author's Notes: Right, I said I'd finish this fic rather quickly, and I'm going to keep my promise. Enjoy the second chapter… fortunately, it's not as long as the first one. On the other hand, I'm rather disappointed with the way it turned out… Geez, why can't I write anything _decent_, for a change!

To my wonderful reviewers: He-loves-me-not, Wot Wot Wark, Evil Kitten of Doom and Silvie-chan – I'm glad you liked the story so far! Thank you _so much_ for reading, reviewing _and_ putting me on your favs lists! As for _'Eternal Calm'_… well, the fifth chapter's almost done, but every time I look at it, I feel like throwing up… Really, it's _that_ bad… Anyway, I'll probably post it soon, pathetic as it is, and then you'll be able to happily share my disgust.

So… has anyone decided to write his/her own Seymour fic, already? Please…? C'mon, people, start working, or this fandom will never grow... Just follow He-loves-me-not's example; she's working hard on her brand new story, isn't she? -hugs tightly-

Okay, back to '_Childhood'_… I poured all my lowest, fangirlish instincts into this chapter, you'll see. I just hope you won't mind, being my fellow Seymour sympathizers and all… Enjoy!

* * *

Part Two

_Escape from Zanarkand_

* * *

Run, just **keep running**. Don't look back, it's useless. She's dead, you can't help her now. Not that you ever had any chance. It was her choice. Her decision. Not your fault.

Aaaah, don't stumble like that! And stop thinking about it!

There are voices right behind you. Probably just apparitions. Ignore. Don't panic. **Keep running**.

Which way? Left, yes, definitely left. Over the plies of rubble. Don't slip. It gets more difficult from here. Breathe in, breathe out. Lungs hurt. Ignore.

Can't die. Won't die.

Yevon, _please_!

She's hot on your heels, laughing. And, suddenly, you don't think it's your imagination, not anymore… Or maybe it isn't her, just one of these undead monsters. It doesn't matter. Don't look back. Keep your eyes on the ground. And **don't stumble**!

AAAAAH!

Straight onto your face. Okay, it _hurt_… but don't make such a fuss about it! You don't have **time** for this! Get up! Run! Faster!

Can't… anymore…

Yes, you can. Don't give up _now_, when you're _almost there_. The exit's so close, reach it and you're safe. You need to get outside. Outside!

Don't–! ...look. Too late. Long, white hair… It really _is_ her! How come she's got here faster than you– Ah!

And she's smiling.

Right. Behind. You.

Thirty meters left. You'll make it. Just keep running!

Outside. Into the light.

* * *

Zanarkand Ruins lie in the middle of a barren, half-flooded wasteland, which stretches endlessly for miles, up to horizon and beyond. The plains are empty, uninhabited, devoid of anything truly alive – only some fiends dwell here, accompanied by thousands of pyreflies. It is a holy, mysterious place… beautiful, even, with specters and colorful spirits hovering everywhere. Nevertheless, for all its ethereal beauty, Zanarkand is still a cold, terrifying land. It is dead.

Seymour was going to die as well, it seemed rather obvious. After all, what chance did a ten-year-old boy have in a place like this? A boy who had always depended on adults before? Alone, without food, without any weapon? Completely and utterly lost?

He had run away from the dome as far as possible, over the sinking dike and into the main city, eventually collapsing to his knees in the middle of an empty street. He had absolutely no idea where he was; tall, shattered buildings hid both the menacing cupola, as well as the Gagazet Range from view.

She wasn't chasing him anymore, was she…?

He remained on all fours for a long while, struggling to draw every single breath, until his heartbeat finally slowed down a bit. Then, still shaking like a leaf, he pushed himself back to his feet, staring at his surrounding with wide, haunted eyes. Even in bright daylight, the City of the Dead looked horrible, like a huge burial site filled with gigantic tombstones. He needed to get away from here… because literally _everywhere_ was better than this place, and even wandering aimlessly through the ruins made more sense than just _standing_ on some empty street. With this thought in mind, the boy started to walk; the direction was generally unimportant for now, as long as he was moving away from the dome.

Fiends didn't make him wait long, of course – the first pack of grendels showed up about half an hour later. Only four monsters, but it didn't really matter; even one was capable of tearing a human being to pieces within a couple of seconds.

In fact, the moment Seymour saw those red, glowing eyes right in front of him, he knew he was as good as dead. Too exhausted to run – the beasts were probably much faster, anyway – he didn't even feel like _trying_. Backing away, until his spine met a cracked wall, he watched them all come closer… oddly enough, they didn't attack him at once, maybe because they were simply unused to dealing with anything else than creatures of their own kind. Still, they kept advancing, with some sort of predatory curiosity in their swift, efficient movements.

How much time would they need to finally overcome their hesitation…? The boy had no idea. He was surrounded and defenseless… well, defenseless… except for the aeon.

The aeon that was probably powerful enough to save his life, but… he couldn't summon it. He _would not_ acknowledge the fact that his mother had changed into that… that _thing_, instead of finding her rest somewhere on the Farplane. He would _not_! He would sooner die than–

He didn't want to die. He didn't–!

Seymour's heart was racing in his chest; the fiends were only a couple of meters away. "No…" he choked. "Mother… mama… please, h-help me…"

Nothing happened. Mother was a fayth now; silly pleas weren't enough to control her aeon, he should have expected that much. There was no other way but to… _force_ her to come, pulling the fayth out her heavy slumber.

To her… what would it feel like…?

She had done this for him, hadn't she…?

His back still pressed against the crumbling skyscraper, Seymour finally closed his eyes, raising both hands in an ancient Yevonite ritual of the Summoning.

* * *

As he finally regained consciousness, an overly dramatic sunset was painting the sky in various shades of red and orange. The world around him seemed eerily quiet; all fiends were gone now, either annihilated or scared away by–

"It's only an aeon…" the boy whispered, to no one in particular, licking his dry lips with an equally dry tongue. "Not my mother. Not her. Not her!"

The two last words were an angry shout that bounced of the buildings' walls. Fortunately, it didn't alarm any unwelcome guests; the remaining monsters were probably still trying to _hide_, considering what they had seen… Seymour sighed and stayed where he was – because, for some unknown reason, movement generally hurt – staring up blankly at the flaming clouds.

The aeon… He had seen some before, hadn't he? They had all looked strange, terrifying even, and yet… none of them seemed nearly half as repulsive as this one… it was a gruesome monster, for crying out loud–! The boy trembled, instantly squeezing his eyes shut, trying to blot out the whole memory… but it didn't quite work. He could still remember the scales, the chains… as well as everything else, including that soundless shriek–

At that point, he had to dig his long fingernails into his skin to stop himself from screaming. However, it didn't stop him from wondering…

Wasn't an aeon's shape somehow dependent on its fayth's thoughts? He didn't understand this, not really – why would his mother's sacrifice give birth to something so hideous? Hideous and pitiful at the same time, and also…

Powerful. Yes, there was no point in denying that. The aeon had destroyed all fiends in one single blow, which looked like a major overkill, anyway. This kind of strength, it was truly amazing. In fact, it made _him_, a ten-year-old boy, almost equal to adults… Almost?

What if it made him even stronger…?

The corners of Seymour's mouth began to twitch. Ah, what did it matter? Damn it all! He never wanted an _aeon_! He wanted his mother, here and now, because… because… he–

Thousands of pyreflies kept dancing as the boy rolled to his side and started to cry, his body jerking violently with each quiet sob.

* * *

The night had fallen swiftly, almost unnoticeably. Cool, crisp air sobered him up a bit, and Seymour was finally beginning to realize that he would need to do something soon, if he ever wanted to leave this place alive. Well, he didn't really want to move at all, exhausted, cold and thirsty as he was, but his common sense– and some persistent survival instinct, too– told him that it was actually a _very good_ idea.

In fact, it was easier said than done. Even sitting up soon proved to be more difficult than he had initially thought. When he tried to move, a sharp pain pierced his chest and the upper part of his left shoulder. Looking down, Seymour found himself nearly fainting at what he saw: the light-blue robes were now drenched with blood. Overcoming his initial shock and revulsion, the boy carefully slid the material aside, only to discover a long, possibly deep gash, running just beneath his collarbone. It must have happened somewhere in the middle of that summoning, he decided quickly, even though he hadn't felt any pain back then, completely blinded by adrenaline.

The injury didn't appear to be fatal, of course, but it was still bad enough to send his head spinning the moment he attempted to stand up. However, Seymour simply clenched his teeth in silent determination and, after a few moments of strained hissing, he was back on his feet, staring ahead with weary eyes. It seemed that, except for the wound and a couple of minor bruises, he was just fine… only that he wasn't.

Alone, lost in the middle of nowhere, scared out of his mind and on the verge of hysteria certainly didn't count as 'fine'. In fact, he had _never_ felt so miserable before, not even the day he had left home… forever, it seemed now, because there was no way back without his father's permission. It could very well mean that there was no place for him return to, but he decided not to worry about _that_ for the time being. He needed to concentrate on _surviving_, after all.

He wanted to live through all this, he really did… but, at the same time, he knew that his chances were slim. How far was Mount Gagazet, anyway? Three weeks' journey from here? A month? And when even making it past the city seemed so difficult, then what about climbing a huge, precipitous slope? His tired, feverish mind could find no answer to that, and yet he had no other choice but to start walking.

Nights were never too dark in Zanarkand, besides, Seymour had inherited his father's eyes – Guado eyes, which generally didn't need much light to function properly. Still, being able to _see_ the road ahead didn't stop him from stumbling every couple of minutes, and his slender hands were soon covered with lots of small cuts. It was a minor problem, though, when even _breathing_ hurt. The wound to his chest made his lungs radiate with pain with every single step he took, turning his midnight stroll into a considerable challenge.

Nevertheless, he kept moving, dragging one feet in front of the other, desperate not to cry, not to give in to raising despair and growing headache. He walked like this for the whole night, and didn't stop when the sun rose, once again changing the ruins into a fawn-colored desert. Minutes stretched into quarters, quarters stretched into hours… until he could simply walk no more. Tripping over a rock, he fell down onto the ground – just like all those times before – and discovered that he did not have the strength to get up, no matter how hard he tried.

He knew he was going to die – either of thirst, or at some fiend's claws – and he was slowly beginning to accept the fact. He could only hope that his end wouldn't be very painful… unlike his mother's death had been.

* * *

"What's up with these monsters today?" a short, fair-haired man spat on the ground, shaking his head angrily. "Where have they gone, dammit?"

"Calm down, Matti," an older woman barked in reply. "Keep yellin' like that, and we won't find any."

"Yeah, must've been yer voice to scare them 'way," another man chuckled, earning himself a death-glare from the one called Matti.

"But he's right, y'know," the fourth person interrupted. "No fiends today. That's weird."

Perhaps, for any other group, this sudden absence of monsters would have been something soothing and desirable, but these people were neither pilgrims nor lost travelers. They belonged to a small, nomad tribe of fiend hunters, who traveled all over the Calm Lands, occasionally climbing the holy Mount Gagazet and venturing into Southern Zanarkand. Most of them had no other home and no other family than their present comrades – Sin's attacks had been awfully frequent over the past twenty years and, as a result, many small villages had been completely erased of the map.

Lately, the hunters had given up killing almost entirely, because they found a new, better source of income: _living_ fiends. Somewhere on the Calm Lands, there lived a crazy, old man, who kept rambling about creating 'a monster circus', or maybe 'a monster arena'. From the group's point of view, it didn't really matter, as long as they were paid for bringing captured beasts.

"Hey, Lyn," suddenly, Matti forced his chocobo to a stop, causing all his comrades to come to a halt as well. Ignoring their irritated looks, the young man stood up in the stirrups, squinting his eyes in the bright, morning sun. "Can ya see that?" he asked, pointing to a small, colorful shape in the distance.

"Eh…? What the heck's that?"

As the whole group rode closer, the immobile shape grew to the size of a small boulder… only that it wasn't a boulder. It was a living, breathing creature… although, in this case, one couldn't be too sure about 'breathing'.

"It's a damn fiend!" one of the men hissed. "Jus'not the kind we're lookin' for. Kill it!"

Without getting off his chocobo, Lyn took a spear into his hand. One had to be careful on Zanarkand Plains, where things were _almost_ _never_ what they looked like… those blasted pyreflies could be very tricky at times. The man turned the weapon in his hand, so that the blunt tip faced the ground. Then, he carefully prodded the small shape. There was still no reaction, so he poked a bit harder.

"Idiot! Stop!" one of the women snarled, jumping down from the saddle and walking up to the motionless figure. The others followed, although they kept a safe distance.

"Don't be so reckless, Lena."

"It's a child, dammit!" she growled irritably.

"Feh, looks like one of these spawns to me"

"Moron!" Lena snarled. "Where are your eyes, Aki? It's a child! A human boy!"

"Human boy, my ass," Riza observed laconically. "What's up with the blue hair, then?"

"Hmph!" the woman snorted. "Look here, you idiot!"

Despite a few strangled shouts of protest – this child, fiend… whatever it was… could have been infected with some sort of contagious disease, after all – she took the boy into her strong arms, lifting him of the ground and brushing his wet, messy hair aside for the others to see. The whole group was quiet for a moment; then, finally, everyone nodded their heads in silent agreement. Lena was right, it was a male child. His face was bruised, bloodied and unbelievably dirty, but it didn't make it any less human.

And, most importantly, the boy was still breathing; his chest falling and rising in a semi-steady rhythm.

Riza shrugged, scratching the back of her neck in a mixture of puzzlement and mild embarrassment. "Never mind the blue hair, then. …But, hell, what's a mere kid doing here?"

"No idea," Aki shrugged and took the unconscious form from Lena's arms. "But he's still alive and we can't leave 'im like that," he trailed off, wordlessly studying the child's pale, dirt-stained face, his blue eyelashes and, most importantly, dried blood covering a large part of his robe. "He's wounded, let's go. We're takin' him back to the camp."

* * *

"Weird kid," Lyn commented for what seemed like a tenth time in the last couple of minutes, critically eyeing the gash on the boy's chest. Quite deep, yet not exactly life-threatening, it was healing rather nicely, given the circumstances. It probably wouldn't even leave a scar, he mused… if handled with care, that is. Heh, it was a bloody miracle, really, that it hadn't become infected, or anything… The man grimaced, reaching for a fresh roll of bandages. Some things simply didn't make sense, especially–

"Still hasn't woken up, eh?" Riza asked, stopping at the entrance to the tent.

He glanced at her briefly, before answering; "Nah. But it's kinda to be expected. Y'know, he was just about to die, when we accidentally found him…" he paused. Lifting the boy up with one hand, he began to dress the wound with practiced ease. "But he'll be fine. Weird kid."

"You seem almost disappointed by the fact that he'll live," the woman snorted.

"Nah…" Lyn shook his head, serious and obviously offended by Riza's remark, even if it had been only meant as a joke. "I could've never wished such a shitty death on anyone… Y'see, when we stumbled across 'im that day, this wound 'ere was already beginnin' to heal on its own. Meaning, he prob'ly wouldn't have died 'cause of it, but of thirst, it's as simple as that. Quite a nasty death, if you'd ask me. One of the nastiest I can think of."

"Yeah…" she muttered. There wasn't much to say on that, not really.

"What makes me wonder most…" Lyn went on after a while, supporting the boy's back with his knee, as he reached for another set of bandages, "is that, just as I said, this wound was already healin'… so it must've been made at least a week ago. Now, how the hell did 'e manage to survive a week on his own up 'ere, in Zanarkand, is beyond me."

"How'd you know he was alone?"

"The scouts returned. They've searched well, but found no one…" the man scowled. "Weird kid. Ain't no human, that's for sure. Dany says he's a Guado, but I don't think so. They're supposed to look very different, y'know, long arms, pointy ears an' everythin'… and just look at 'im. He's not like that…"

"Yeah."

"…And it's not as if any of us, humans, has ever seen a Guado b'fore, either," Lyn ranted. "They never stick their noses out of their frickin', chilly forest–"

"Whatever," Riza shrugged, turning back to leave. "He may be a cross-breed, for all I know."

"Idiot. We an' Guado can't have kids together."

"Yeah," she sighed. "I know."

* * *

The air smelt of metal, smoke, animal skins and wet chocobo feathers. Seymour opened his eyes slowly, with some difficulty. His body felt hot and much heavier than usual; raising his head a bit, he discovered that the extra weight was probably coming from all the blankets he was covered with. He lay on something soft, and it wasn't a normal bed, just some sort of… fur? He looked up at the ceiling – dark, round, definitely not solid. A tent, then, he realized, but it didn't make any of his confusion go away.

And yet… he felt warm, cozy and comfortable. It was so easy to close his eyes and pretend that nothing had happened… that he was safe once again, laying in his bed in Baaj – or even in Guadosalam – simply taking an afternoon nap, until his mother came and… and…

There was this awful, unpleasant sensation in his throat, and breathing suddenly became difficult, as if somebody was trying to strangle him… but no tears came. She would never do this again, he knew. She was–

"Hey, kid! Ye awake…?"

It was some broad-shouldered, bearded man, who seemed rather friendly, in spite of his scary appearance. After a few seconds, Seymour's hands on the covers unclenched slowly. With his gaze fixed on the stranger's face, he tried to sit up, suddenly aware of a dull ache in his left shoulder. He paused, wondering what was wrong… when a hazy memory flashed before his eyes: there had been fiends… and the aeon… He gasped, unable to suppress a small whimper. Not only was she dead, but also–

The stranger stood by his side now, visibly concerned, mistaking the child's anguished expression for a sign of physical pain. "Take it easy, kid… here, lemme help ye…" he placed a large hand under Seymour's back, pushing him up, and the boy was too surprised to protest. "Better, eh? Say, how are ye feelin'…?"

Seymour only blinked at these words, still a bit dizzy, though finally able to sit on his own.

"Kid…?" the man frowned. "Ye do understand what I'm sayin', dontcha?"

He understood, of course, even in spite of the stranger's funny – vulgar, his mother would have said – accent. "I…" Seymour hesitated, his long fingers tracing the bandage that covered his arm, collarbone and some part of his chest. "Who are you? Where am I?"

"Don't touch it," the man said impassively, nodding at the child's hand. "Yer with the Hunters' Tribe, kid. I'm Aki y'Ferro. Ye?"

"Hunters' Tribe...?" Seymour frowned. "I've never heard of it…"

"Whatever, kid," the man – Aki – shrugged, looking at him expectantly, obviously demanding an answer. "So, yer name's...?"

"…Seymour."

"Seymour, eh… Seymour _who_?" After all, it was customary all over Spira to give your full surname when introducing yourself, but the boy stubbornly pressed his lips together, refusing to say anything else.

"Just Seymour," he finally replied, turning his head away. 'Seymour van Jyscal' would have been too much, a dead giveaway of his heritage; he suspected that even here, on the edge of the world, people were familiar with the Maesters' names. "Aki-_san_–" he bit his tongue, but it was already too late. "…Where are we, exactly?"

"Our camp," the man's stern expression didn't change. "I said, don't touch it."

"It's itching," the boy muttered, looking down at his fingers, which had somehow found their way to his collarbone… again. "Camp…?"

"I mean, Southern Zanarkand…" Aki paused. "Listen, kid… we found ye a couple of days ago on Zanarkand Plains, alone. Care to explain? Any people we should be searchin' for right now?" There was no reply, so the man went on, frowning. "Say… these ain't no peasant clothes yer wearin'… Who are ye, really? Yer quite too young for a pilgrimage to Zanarkand, eh? So, what were ye doin' here, in the middle of nowhere? And what happened?"

What… happened…? Yes, that was a _very_ good question. What happened…? Seymour blinked in surprise, suddenly discovering that he simply… didn't remember. The last thing he recalled was walking up to a huge door, holding his mother's hand. She was dead now… and a fayth, too; he was painfully aware of that. But what about _other_ things…? Like… how did his mother die, exactly? What happened _after_ they went into that dome? Where were their escorts now? How did he end up in this tent?

"I… I don't know," he admitted, a bit helplessly, and after a long pause. "I can't remember."

The man's eyes widened, but he said nothing at first, visibly hesitating. "Kid… ye've been delirious for a week, cryin' out in yer sleep an' all… see, 'twas somethin' about your mother, so I think, mebbe we should look fo–"

"No!" Seymour shouted. "It's none of your business. Leave me alone!"

"Hey, hey!" the man raised his voice as well, his patience suddenly lost. "Yer not some kinda prince to order me around, boy!" –the said boy wisely chose _not_ to comment on _that_– "And stop fumblin' with that thing, already!"

Seymour's hand reflexively dropped to his side, letting go of the bandage. And then it finally hit him – he was alive _only_ because of these people. Yes, he practically owed his life to them… even if it seemed so worthless now, without his mother…

"I… I am sorry," he spoke softly, pushing the covers aside, deliberately ignoring the man's startled look.

"Hey, kid, whatcha doin'? Yer too sick to walk around like this… Hey!" Aki fell speechless at the sight of the blue-haired boy dropping down to his knees – on purpose, not because he was too weak to stand up – and pressing his forehead against the ground in some sort of a formal, exaggerated bow.

What could this man know about Guado customs? Seymour felt that he was doing this for himself, mostly… he needed to make sure he still cared… about his life, about _everything_. He remained in this rather uncomfortable position for a couple of long seconds – his head suddenly heavy, vision swirling – then pushed himself up, meeting the man's worried, confused gaze.

"Kid…?"

"I am sorry, Aki-_san_. Thank you for saving my life."

* * *

Stifling a bored yawn, Seymour sat at the edge of the camp, watching it disappear before his very eyes. Aki's people expected him to help with the packing, he knew… but he had never worked like this before, and he suspected that his 'help' would only cause more trouble for them, so he stayed where he was. In fact, some men had already come to scold him for his laziness, but he had simply muttered some pitiful excuse about his shoulder hurting too much – even though it had healed almost completely by now – and they had left him alone at that, allowing him to sit back and watch as they disassembled one tent after another.

"Can you ride a chocobo, boy?"

Seymour looked to his left – it was Lena, seemingly a very important person here. Even older men feared her snappy remarks; she could be quite nasty, if only she wanted to.

"Yes," he replied, standing up.

She eyed him suspiciously; so did a calm chocobo she had brought with her. "You'll be riding with me, anyway. We leave in ten minutes… Now hold the bird f'me, will you?"

She smacked her lips twice and the chocobo sat down on the ground, right next to the boy's side, who quite reluctantly took the bridle form Lena's hand. Then, the woman spun on her heel and walked away in the workers' direction, leaving Seymour alone with the huge, yellow ball of feathers, which (he was sure of that) could run away the second it wanted to.

The chocobo, however, had no intention to move. It warked quietly, watching the boy questioningly with one of its blue eyes. Seymour absently raised his hand to pat the bird's back, earning himself another, much more content wark.

Six days had passed since he had woken up in that tent, but things still didn't look very optimistic. He was in the middle of nowhere, completely dependent on some unfamiliar people he didn't quite trust, in spite of their relative friendliness. And their life… well… it left a lot to be desired, especially for a maester's son. Still, what other choice did he have, but to stick to the nomads for the time being, at least until he figured out what to do next? What if there was _no_ other option? He couldn't simply return to Guadosalam, could he? He had never really understood _why_ his father had sent him away, but it _had_ happened, and he probably wasn't allowed to come back any time he wanted.

Seymour didn't have to worry about his future for too long.

Jyscal's men found him exactly three weeks later.

* * *

End of Part Two

* * *

Coming up next - Part Three, _Moving On_

* * *

Author's Notes: What happened in the Dome? Well, if you feel confused about that part, it's okay… you should be. Just wait for the following chapters to find out.

Also, will Seymour _ever_ stop crying? Right now, I'm sick of all this teary, cliché-stuffed angst… but it couldn't be helped, I guess. It would be pretty OOC for a little kid _not_ to cry, especially in a situation like this… So, please, forgive me for turning him into such a wuss.

And now… any comments? Useful criticism? Horrible sentences I need to fix? Well, did you even like this chapter…? Please, let me know!


	3. Moving On

Author's Notes: Well, you see… it's mostly a filler chapter, composed of a couple of slightly… random scenes, in which I don't stick to Seymour's point of view too often. In fact, reading this is _completely optional_. (Hmm, it makes me wonder… maybe I should've posted the fourth chapter straight away?) Anyway, I was trying to go easy on the poor kid this time, and since he needed a friend and/or a father figure _soooo_ badly… -there is a long pause- …Seymour's grandpa is back, along with his infuriating superiority complex. And there's also a new, stupid OC, who was _supposed_ to be a cool guy… but I guess something's gone terribly wrong along the way…

Actually, the original version of this chapter used to be rather humorous… and I felt quite tempted to leave it like that, but then again, random silliness in the middle of a sad fic wouldn't look too well, would it? Enjoy the edited version, then… serious, yet with a slight touch of sarcasm. Oh yeah, and I changed the title, not that it matters much.

To Silvie-chan, Shimmersea, Silver Chaotic of Randomia, Faraway Down, Wot Wot Work and Neko Kuroban– _thanks_ for reading, enjoying, reviewing _and_ pointing out my mistakes… which have already been fixed, by the way. I hope you'll like this chapter, too… although I still have _many_ doubts about that… SCoR, please, don't kill me for being such a slow updater… -covers- I've already started the _seventh_ chapter of _'Adolescence'_, but I still need to edit the previous _five_, before I can actually put them on this site!

Yay! My appeal's working! Now, look straight into my eyes and repeat: "I will write a Seymour fic this week, I will write a Seymour fic this week…" ...did it help? Anyway, it feels good to know that some of you are at least _considering_ this… don't give up on your ideas, I beg of you!

* * *

Part Three

_Moving On_

* * *

_"Mother, please…! I don't want you to become a fayth!" his voice grows louder, desperate. Why won't she listen to him anymore? Why are her eyes so distant? "Please… don't…"_

_"It must be done," she replies evenly. "There is no other way. Use me and defeat Sin… only then will the people accept you."_

_"I don't care about them!" Why can't she understand? "I need you, mother! No one else!"_

_"Seymour…" her expression doesn't change._

_"We don't have to do this_–"

_"Please, hurry. I'm afraid I don't… have much time left."_

_"But mother_–"

_"Come, Seymour," she isn't even looking at him as she turns and starts to walk away, farther into the dome. A couple of moments later, her thin frame is swallowed by darkness._

_"No, mother!" he cries after her. "Please, come back…"_

"My lord."_ The guard's fingers on his shoulder are cold, heavy. He won't meet Seymour's eyes, either. _"Let's go."

* * *

"_My lord_? _May I_?"

He woke up with a start in a cool, tiny room, where he had been dozing right next to the window; his hands wrapped tightly around his knees. With a soft sigh – why was his heart pounding like this, he had no idea – he stretched his legs and yawned, noticing absently that it had once again begun to snow outside.

"_Your highness_? _May I?_" there was another knock on the door, followed by a long pause, during which the man behind the wall must have eventually realized that he would not receive an invitation… and decided to enter, anyway.

It was Faris, of course, a young, stunningly handsome, absolutely infuriating Guado officer. Refusing to acknowledge the guard's presence, Seymour shrugged, once again turning his head to the window. Those big, heavy snowflakes looked so pretty, especially now, when the sun was–

"_Your highness?_" the captain repeated, his voice half-worried, half-demanding.

"What is it?" Seymour finally asked – when it became obvious that, unfortunately, the man wouldn't _just leave_.

The officer frowned at the choice of language, but decided to refrain from any unnecessary comments. "_May I speak to you for a moment, my lord?_"

"No, you may not."

"_Shimoa-sama_…" Faris sighed. "_It is really important. I _need_ to know what happened to Avalon-dono, because_–"

"She is dead, I have already told you that," Seymour looked at the guard at last, meeting the man's concerned gaze. "…_Leave_."

"_I cannot, my lord_. _I have to send a messenger to Jyscal-roushi and I will not leave until_–"

"_Don't you ever listen_?" the boy interrupted sharply, much sharper than he had intended. "_I said I don't remember_! _Why won't you stop bothering me_!"

The captain's long, pointy ears fell slightly; truth to be told, he was a gentle, compassionate man, definitely too soft for his own good. "_I_…" he began, lowering his eyes to the floor, "_I am sorry, Shimoa-sama_. _Please, forgive me_."

Seymour watched the man walk away, then sighed heavily, resting his cheek against the chilly pane. He hadn't been lying – he really couldn't recall _anything_, except for the fact that his mother had died and somehow ended up as a fayth… but he wasn't going to tell Faris _that_, of course. Zanarkand still haunted him in his dreams, he knew, for he would often wake up in the middle of the night, drenched with cold sweat and breathing heavily, as if he had been running for miles. However, he never remembered any of those nightmares… and it was perhaps for the best.

* * *

If this was how early_ summer_ on Mount Gagazet looked like, Seymour wondered, then what about _winter_? The blizzard had lasted for two days now, and it seemed far from ending… which was incredibly frustrating, because it meant that he was _still_ stuck in this tiny, cold inn, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.

His father's people had found him precisely eleven days ago, much to their young captain's relief, the fiend hunters' surprise… and the boy's honest consternation. Truth to be told, he had never expected the man to look for him again, not after so many years. In fact, if his stay on Baaj had been any longer, he might have even forgotten his father completely. Mother had rarely spoken of him, anyway, and Seymour had never been allowed to read any letters from home. The Guado soldiers hadn't been very talkative, either, and it had seemed that the maester had entirely given up on his family.

Seymour sighed; everything was so confusing… Why would his father remember him now, of all times? What had made him change his mind? Well, apparently, a couple of months ago one of the few servants left on the island had sent Lord Jyscal a letter, informing him of his wife's journey to Zanarkand… so the man must have had at least _some_ idea of what had been happening. Still, for some reason or other, he had not acted at once. In fact, Guadosalam wasn't located half as far from Zanarkand as Baaj was… and if the maester's servants had reached the Sacred City _so late_… then it could only mean that the man had hesitated for two or three months.

In this case, two months changed literally _everything_. The boy bit his lip, absently watching the snowflakes twirl outside. Considering empty 'what-ifs' was useless, he knew… and yet, and the same time, he couldn't help but wonder - what if the captain had arrived sooner? Would his mother still be alive, then?

Maybe.

Then again, maybe not.

Right.

No point in wondering.

He had other worries now – finally, he was going back home… whatever it meant. How long had it been, anyway? Four years? Four and a half? He couldn't quite remember, although he was fairly sure that he had left Guadosalam relatively soon after his sixth birthday… and now only two months separated him from his eleventh. He wondered if many things had changed during that time… did the trees still sing, sometimes? Would the forest still look so pretty after dark, with all those gentle lights hovering everywhere? Yes, he definitely wanted to see _that_ again; the view from his bedroom window was one of the few things he had truly missed on Baaj.

Was going home such a good thing, then? The more he thought about it, the less certain he felt. After all, going home meant that he would have to confront his father… tell him about everything… yes, _everything_.

Seymour cringed, burying his face in his hands. The future seemed so awful now, so complicated…

If only she hadn't died…

* * *

Lord Jyscal's third letter was neat, short and straight to the point. Actually, it could have been summarized in only a couple of words – hurry, it said, or you will be in serious trouble, captain. Faris sighed, absently running a hand through his dark, thick hair. Their journey back prolonged, he knew, and it was mostly _his_ fault… because, honestly speaking, sometimes it was okay to ignore orders. Especially orders that had very little to do with reality.

What did the maester know, anyway? His son had been traveling all over Spira… for what, ten months, now? First from that desert island, all the way to Zanarkand, then back again, through the chilly Gagazet Range, over the Calm Lands, to Bevelle… The boy obviously needed some rest; even though he hardly ever complained, Faris knew that he was exhausted, both physically, as well as mentally. It was easy to tell from his movements, apathetic gestures, the way he spoke…

The captain shook his head, slowly, methodically tearing Jyscal's letter to pieces. He wasn't risking too much, was he? After all, he had promised to _take care_ of the lord's child… and, in this case, it meant that they would stay in this rented mansion – where Seymour could finally sleep in a _real_ bed – for at least two weeks.

He was still cleaning the remaining pieces of paper from his desk, when one of his subordinates entered the room.

"_Faris-taichou_," the man said, bowing slightly. "_You have a visitor_."

"_A visitor_…?" Faris frowned. "_Who, exactly_?"

"_Some human_," the soldier replied in a slightly bored, dispassionate voice. "_An old man, it seems_…_ he wouldn't tell us his name, though, so I told him to wait downstairs_."

"_If he wouldn't even introduce himself_," the captain shrugged, waving his hand in an irritated, dismissive gesture, "_then he is hardly worth my time_."

"_Taichou_," the soldier interrupted, "_this man is most obviously a nobleman… _and_ he asked for you by your _full_ name_."

Faris looked up, meeting the guard's calm gaze. "…_I don't know any humans in this city_," he finally said.

"_So I have thought_," the other man nodded. "_Still, I think that maybe you should see him._"

* * *

Indeed, the visitor _was_ a nobleman, it showed quite clearly in the way he acted. In fact, if Faris hadn't known any better, he would have said that the stranger had made his way upstairs _without_ bothering to wait for a formal invitation. Sighing almost unnoticeably, the Guado stood up from his chair to greet the man with a polite bow, but before he could actually _say_ anything, the visitor was already by his desk, falling down into an empty seat.

"Captain Faris van Thyne," he began in a relatively polite, yet definitely not humble manner, looking around the room with the air of a man who was used to people listening to his every single word.

"Do I know you, sir…?" Faris asked, frowning. He was generally aware of the fact that most humans lacked proper manners, but still, this man was going a bit too far in his nonchalance.

"No, I don't think so," the visitor replied, "…but you must have heard my name at least once, captain."

"Well, then…?" he could swear he was only a step away from loosing his patience.

"Gwyan de C'renaville," the man finally said, leaning back in his chair.

Faris bristled, unable to suppress a pained, irritated sigh. "…Ah. I see. It is an _honor_ to meet you, Lord C'renaville," he assured in a slightly strained voice. Yes, the man's surname definitely changed a couple of things… actually, it _complicated_ a couple of things beyond measure.

"So I imagine," the man smirked, though his face quickly regained its previous, sober look. "Captain, I heard the news. I will ask you bluntly… what happened to my daughter?"

Suddenly, the young Guado found himself unconsciously backing away from his guest. "Well," he began after a long pause, "Avalon-_dono_ has, um… passed away… in Zanarkand."

"I know that," the man said sharply. "I was asking about the details. How did it happen?"

Faris took a deep breath; even if this human acted so rude, he still deserved respect, simply by being Lord Jyscal's father-in-law… and, besides, it just wouldn't be _fair_ to insult a man who had recently lost his only daughter.

"Nobody knows," he admitted, looking away in mild embarrassment.

Lord Gwyan was visibly upset, even in spite of his offensive attitude. "What do you mean by that?"

"It's just as I said, C'renaville-_dono_… Nobody knows. It was already too late when we reached Zanarkand. There were no survivors, except for the young master… and, naturally, he wasn't very talkative on the whole matter."

The man's aging face looked slightly paler than before, but he still appeared relatively clam and composed. "Did you find her body?"

Despite himself, Faris lowered his eyes to avoid the man's gaze. "No, we didn't… but it couldn't be helped… I am not sure, but it seems that the lady died somewhere in Northern Zanarkand. We didn't venture that far."

"'Seems', you say…" Gwyan's laughter was a low, humorless sound.

Faris bit his tongue, unable to form a satisfactory answer. After all, how could he possibly explain that he hadn't even _started_ a search because of the boy's nearly hysterical – and then cold, defensive – behavior _every_ time he had tried to bring that subject up?

As if able to read the captain's thoughts, the lord suddenly spoke. "…Her son?"

Faris hesitated. "His highness is all right… I guess."

"You guess…?" the man's gray eyebrows lowered slightly. "…All right, what's wrong with him? Formalities aside, please."

The young captain sighed heavily. "C'renaville-_dono…_ seriously…"

"Talk," the lord commanded in a heavy, tired voice. "I _have_ the right to know, do I really need to remind you?"

"Well…" Faris said after a long pause, "…he just won't talk to anyone, unless it is absolutely necessary… or eat too much, for that matter," he sighed. "It has been like this ever since we left Zanarkand… which was about two months ago," he added, after a brief consideration.

"…I see," the nobleman finally said. "I need to talk to him."

Faris shook his head almost instantly. "He does not wish to be bothered."

"He may be your lord," Gwyan's eyes were inscrutable, "…but he's still my grandson. Now, where can I find him?"

* * *

Seymour sat on a white garden bench, surrounded by a neatly mowed lawn and a couple of rosebushes. There was a small pointer in his lap – a _very_ late birthday gift from Faris, who still acted as silly and overprotective as ever – currently trying to break free from his grasp, bored with the prolonging stillness. Lost in thought, the boy didn't pay much attention to the puppy's struggles; he had to name his present, after all, and he didn't want to let go of it before he decided on a _beautiful_,_ extraordinary_ name… because it was either this, or having to deal with the captain's annoying, overly hurt expression.

"Nice dog," somebody spoke behind his back. The accent definitely didn't belong to a Guado; Seymour whirled around in surprise, only to find himself staring into a pair of disturbingly familiar eyes. The puppy used this opportunity to flee from his hands, but the boy didn't even notice, unable to tear his gaze away from the sharp, wrinkled face… which looked a bit different from the one in his memories – tired, older, more troubled.

"You still remember me, don't you?" his grandfather asked, casually stepping in front of the bench.

"Gwyan-_dono_," Seymour breathed.

The man's lips broke into a tight, sour smile. "…You don't need to be so formal."

"I…" he was at a loss, struggling for words. "What are you doing here…" he trailed off, unsure of how to address the man.

"I live here," the voice sounded deadly serious, and Seymour could only guess that the man was joking. "We are in Bevelle, remember?"

"I mean… what are you doing _here…_ Gwyan… _dono_?"

"In this garden?"

"Yes," he nodded, exasperated.

"Sitting," the man said smoothly, gracefully falling down onto the bench, right next to the scowling boy.

They were both quiet for a while – Gwyan looking up at the sunny sky, Seymour glaring at his grandfather in open frustration.

"…Leave me alone," he finally said.

"Don't be rude," came an instant reply.

"I am not. _You_ are intruding."

"_Boy_," something in his grandfather's serious, meaningful voice made him fall silent at once; he impatiently waited for the man to continue as the pause prolonged. "So, you're finally going home… are you happy?"

Seymour turned his head away, immediately forgetting about the verbal match. He wasn't sure whether he could be honest with his grandfather, if it was okay to trust him – he had only known this man for a week, after all, and that had been about five years ago… still, even in spite of their quite unpleasant first meeting, it had been a rather nice week, so perhaps…

"I don't know," he finally mumbled. "…I guess so."

"Is that your final answer?" the man asked calmly. "Boy… either you are, or you aren't; it's as simple as that."

"I am," Seymour replied. "I'm just…"

"Scared?" the man finished for him, and the boy nodded. "Of what?"

"I don't know," he said, although it wasn't quite true. "I just am."

"I see…" Gwyan sighed, and the garden was once again silent. "…You still miss her, don't you?"

Seymour looked up with a startled gasp; a mere second later his eyes darted to the side, desperate to rest on _anything_ but the man's solemn face.

Neither of them spoke for a very long while.

"Tell me. What happened."

It wasn't a question, not really. In fact, it sounded nearly like an invitation.

* * *

"…A fayth," Gwyan finally muttered, long after Seymour had finished his short, incomplete story.

"Yes," he whispered, unable to keep his shoulders from trembling.

"Hmph," the man leant forward. "…Figures."

Seymour was up on his feet in an instant, absolutely horrified. "How can you say that–!"

"Calm down, boy," the man replied harshly, without even looking up.

"Do you really–"

"_Boy_."

_That_ tone again. Clenching his teeth in anger, Seymour fell down onto the bench. "_What_?" He didn't _care_ if he was being rude. The man obviously _deserved_ it.

"Well, Avalon…" Gwyan's voice was low, it seemed nearly exhausted. "She always used to be reckless. And stubborn… yes, very stubborn," the man chuckled humorlessly. "I am… truly shocked with her decision… but… not nearly as much as I should be."

"I…" the boy's grip on the edge of his seat had turned his knuckles completely white. "She could have…"

"Seymour," his grandfather looked up, at last. "Didn't you just say that she was incurably ill? Do you blame yourself for her death?"

"…For her choice, yes."

"Well, you shouldn't. There was probably very little you could do."

"But… she could have lived longer," he muttered. "She _would_ have lived longer if we hadn't gone to Zanarkand."

"'Longer' does not always mean 'better'," the man flexed his thin, sinewy fingers. "She has… condemned herself to eternity, but at the same time, her death has not been meaningless."

"That doesn't change the fact that she's _not here_."

"No, she is not…" the lord admitted, once again falling silent."…Seymour." Reluctantly, the boy met his grandfather's stern gaze. "I have talked to captain Faris. He is worried about you."

"He is worried because I'm his responsibility," the last word was punctuated by an annoyed grimace. "He has orders from my father."

"Then perhaps your father is also worried about you," the man replied smoothly and, strangely enough, just this once there were no malicious tones in his voice when he spoke about Jyscal. Unable to reply to this reasoning at once, the boy frowned, wordlessly contemplating the thought. "Don't be such a child, Seymour. If you continue to drown in apathy, you will never get better."

"Who says I _want_ to get better?" lavender eyes narrowed in defiance.

"Move on, boy," Gwyan sighed, bending down to pick up the puppy, which had once again found its way to the boy's feet. "There's nothing else you can do. Find yourself some purpose in life…" he paused. "You do realize that you will become a maester someday, don't you?" Seymour gave him a startled, incredulous look. "She would have wanted it… I'm sure of it."

There was another long pause, interrupted only by the dog's loud sniffing and – what a coincidence – the sound of the Temple bells ringing somewhere in the distance.

"You're awfully calm about all this, Gwyan-_dono_," the boy finally murmured. "…Didn't you love her?"

"True, I loved her… but I learned to live without her a long, long time ago," the man's expression was dark, inscrutable. "She died to me… the moment she married your father."

* * *

Days went on fast after that, perhaps even too fast. They were heading for the Moonflow now, because Faris had decided not to cross the Thunder Plains, opting for a different, longer, yet definitely much safer route instead. Seymour didn't mind; he wasn't in a hurry, not really. He still had his doubts about going home, doubts that grew bigger with every passing day, even though he was doing his best to ignore them.

Unfortunately, the long, monotonous journey gave him a lot of time to think, regardless of whether he wanted it, or not. He generally tried to avoid dwelling on the past, although it was a bit hard, sometimes, as he was constantly visiting familiar places; places he had once seen with _her_. And, unable to occupy himself with the present, he was left pondering on his own future, mostly. Every so often, he found himself remembering his grandfather's words… _find some purpose in life_, the man had said. In had been a good advice, he suspected, yet it didn't make things any less complicated. He couldn't find a satisfactory answer, no matter how hard he tried.

It seemed that life would never make much sense again.

* * *

"_My lord_?" Faris asked quietly. "_Is something the matter_?"

With his back still turned on the man, Seymour frowned and shook his head. "…_It's nothing_."

"_Shall we go, then_?"

The boy didn't reply at once, and when he did, his voice sounded almost hesitant. "_No… just a little longer_."

They stood at the edge of a tall, picturesque cliff, which overlooked a large, wooded valley – early autumn winds had already turned all trees into a sea of red, orange and yellow, and the sight was nothing short of breathtaking. However, Seymour hadn't chosen to stop here simply because he had liked the view so much.

"_I am sure that Jyscal-roushi will be glad to see you, Shimoa-sama_," Faris said softly, earning himself nothing but a small, indifferent shrug from the boy.

"_If you say so…_"

The captain lowered his eyes. There was no point in trying to convince the child, because, in all honesty, he could not be too sure about the maester's reaction himself. However, during the past eighteen weeks he had grown rather attached to the sad, quiet boy, and it pained him to see his troubled, uneasy expression. It seemed that… the closer they were to Guadosalam, the more distant the young lord became. Faris hated it; if spite of his profession, he had a soft spot for children, and he couldn't stand things as they were. He needed to _do_ something… preferably _now_.

Well, there was no harm in _trying_. "_Shimoa-sama_..." he began firmly, straightening himself up, "…_what would you say about a race_?" Now, _that_ certainly got _everyone's_ attention. "_Your highness?_" Faris repeated, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"_What_…_ what are you _talking_ about_?" Seymour blinked. After a couple of months spent in the officer's company, he was rather well used to his semi-formal attitude and slightly… _unconventional_ ideas, yet there were still times when the man's behavior came as utterly surprising.

Ignoring some meaningful coughs from his subordinates, the captain pointed at a random tree in the valley. "_Can you see that, my lord_? _The large, red one at the end of that clearing_?" Seymour nodded slightly. "_Well, it's not too far, is it_?"

"_Um_…_ sure_…"

"_And of course you are not afraid of heights, right_? _Or of speed, for that matter_?"

"_Faris-san_…" Seymour's dumbfounded expression changed into an angry, offended glare.

"_Captain, I don't think it's a good_–" one of the guards began, but he was quickly silenced by a wave of Faris' hand.

"_Be quiet, you_," the man hissed. "_Now, my lord_… _are you ready_?" The boy gave him an irritated look, and the captain smiled sweetly. "_So I have thought_… _Go_!" he shouted, taking off almost instantly.

"_Wait, Shimoa-sama_–! _What if something_–" his escorts started to yell… but Seymour couldn't hear them anymore.

* * *

Faris' challenge had soon turned out to be very difficult… _and_ scary. The forest was thick, dark, filled with fallen trunks, protruding roots and low-hanging branches… not to mention the fact that the unbelievably steep slope didn't make things any easier. At first, Seymour felt like giving up the second he started – beating the infuriating man was _not_ worth breaking his own neck, after all – but then, after a brief consideration, he realized that he would do _everything_ to win… or at least he would prove that he was _not_ a coward.

In fact, he was slowly catching up with the Guado, and it made him all the more determined to reach the damn clearing _faster_. When he was just about to race past the captain, however, the man suddenly jumped to the side, disappearing somewhere among the trees a couple of seconds later. Seymour had no other choice but to ride straight ahead, because it still seemed to be the shortest route to the tree.

In less than five minutes, though, Faris was back on the trial, materializing at least thirty meters ahead of the boy. Seymour couldn't suppress a loud, disappointed cry.

Turning his head, yet not slowing down a bit, Faris started to laugh. "_I used to grow up here, my lord_! _I know many shortcuts through the forest_!" he paused abruptly, throwing himself down at his chocobo's back, just in time to avoid a nasty, violent encounter with a thick, low branch.

"_That's not fair_!" the boy shouted back.

"_Not fair_? _Most things are never fair, your highness_!"

"_That's_… _cheating_!"

"_No, it is not!_" there was a mischievous glint in Faris' eyes. "_Your chocobo is faster… besides, you are much lighter_!_ I needed to make sure our chances were even_!"

Meanwhile, the forest had thinned considerably; a few moments later, the two riders finally burst into the tiny meadow. Seymour involuntarily clenched his teeth in anticipation, their goal was already in plain sight… And they weren't racing anymore. They were flying.

He eventually came to a halt under the red canopy, still panting heavily from all the excitement, suddenly realizing how close he had been to actually _dying_ on that uneven slope. Much to his own surprise, he had won the race – though by a pathetically small margin – and it made him feel very, _very_ satisfied… mostly because the man hadn't simply _let_ him win. They had been both fighting _for real_.

"_What's the matter, my lord_?" Faris chuckled, catching up with boy a few seconds later. "_You look as if _you_ were the one doing all the running_," he smirked, turning to see whether any of his men had already reached the clearing. He saw no one, of course, as they were probably still making their way through the thick forest, at a more reasonable pace.

Seymour found himself returning the smirk – as well as the insult – rather quickly. "_Has it ever occurred to you, Faris, that you may be _crazy?"

"_I am happy to see you in a much better mood, my lord. Anyway, please, have a look around_…" the captain's voice sounded quite strange: half-urgent, half-expectant.

The boy blinked and did as he was told, finally paying some attention to his surroundings. All right, he thought, there was this clearing, lots of red trees, some colorful water… He frowned and rode a bit closer, eyes instantly widening at the sight. It was not just _some_ river. It was the Moonflow – not the main arm, of course, just one of its smaller tributaries. Still, it could only mean one thing…

"_It's_…" Seymour started, unsure of what to say.

"_Yes, my lord_," Faris stopped by his side, lips curled into a gentle smile. "…_Welcome home_."

* * *

End of Part Three

* * *

Coming up next - Part Four: _Heritage_

* * *

Author's Notes:

1) Do you know howhard it was for me _not_ to write a sweet 'okaeri-nasai'/'tadaima' at the end of this chapter…? -scowls- If you, by any chance, know what I'm talking about, then tell me, please, how were these lines translated in FFX-2…? Oh, you know, when /they/ are standing in the water and embracing each other…? (…I hope this doesn't count as a spoiler.) Well, I don't know, because I've only seen this scene in some AMVs with Japanese subtitles…

2) I'm sorry about the race. I really am… but I needed to take a _happy_ Seymour home… _without_ him actually noticing it. I know it's absurd… totally out of place… not in character… but then again, the boy's only _eleven_, why can't he have some fun once in a while…? -pauses- Look, I told you I was _sorry_!

3) One word about how utterly _stupid_ Faris is, and I'll go hang myself. Seriously. You don't have to remind me. -crawls under a rock and dies-

4) Well, filler chapters generally _are_ bad, so let's just move on to some better stuff, namely the last part of this story. Seymour will finally see his father for the first time in five years… as well as regain his Zanarkand memories. If you're thinking: 'little Seymour plus Jyscal plus Yunalesca means…damn, angst again!', then you are, unfortunately, quite right. Anyway, it'll be an interesting chapter… I think. :)

5) I can only improve with the help of your reviews – please, click the blue button… Pretty please?


	4. Heritage

Author's Notes: Hey, guess what - I decided to turn _'Childhood'_ into a longer story. First of all, I hate leaving important things unsaid, so I had to at least sketch the reasons that made Seymour's mother act the way she did. Secondly, I thought that it would be nice to write some more parent-child angst. Say, are you happy? ;)

Don't expect Seymour's dad to be too IC in this. Actually, I have a fair idea of what an in-character Jyscal might look like, but I couldn't afford to be too sympathetic towards him this time. You see, _'Childhood'_ is written mostly from Seymour's point of view… and the poor boy has no idea how certain things may seem from his father's perspective. You, dear readers, shall also remain unaware. ;) And yes, Yunalesca's pretty evil in this, too – even though I took some of her morbid quotes straight from the game, she still ended up being slightly nastier than usual.

For any unfamiliar, Japanese-sounding words in this chapter, check the A/N at the end of Part One.

Silvie-chan, Silver Chaotic of Randomia, Neko Kuroban… you are great - _great_, I tell you! Sticking to me, even though I wrote such a horrible filler chapter… Thanks! Your support has been invaluable!

Silvie-chan, your story rules! I've read it at least twenty times by now… and I still can't get enough of it! You _have_ to write more, _please_! -points at story- You, people! Go read! And review! Now!

Silver Chaotic of Randomia, I'm glad you like my angst. ;) Hopefully, the two final chapters of '_Childhood_' will meet your expectations!

Neko Kuroban, thanks to you, I learned a new word - 'spiffy'. :))) Yep, I'm serious, my English vocabulary is _that_ limited. Anyway, keep working on your Seymour fic! You have my blessing! -gives some fancy Yevon blessing- (And… have I already mentioned that, for some unknown reason, I _love_ you as a person? Hm, perhaps it has something to do with that 'cześć' in one of your reviews...? ;))

Well, anyway! Enjoy the new chapter!

* * *

Part Four

_Heritage_

* * *

"Why aren't you asleep, 'tousan?"

_There is a glass of some liquid in his father's hand. Wine, perhaps? It smells a bit different, though, and has a funny, golden color. When he climbs onto the sofa to get a better look, Father gracefully puts his drink onto a nearby table._

"And you? It's already quite late, aren't you supposed to be in bed?"

"I couldn't sleep." _He pauses, absently playing with his own toes._ "'Tousan?"

"Neither could I," _Father sighs, and there's something wrong with his voice._ "What is it, Shimoa?"

"'Tousan,"_ he asks, looking up at the pale, tired face. "_Mama says we'll be going away…" _He struggles to remember the place's name, but no words come to mind, _"Um, somewhere, tomorrow… And that you won't be coming with us. Why?"

"No," _Father finally says, _"I won't."

"Why?"

"I have to stay here and take care of home." _The Guado's hand reaches slowly for the golden glass, but it suddenly stops, falling down to the man's side._

"I want to stay, too," _he says firmly, trying to sound as serious as possible. _"I don't want to go _anywhere_."

_Father stares down at him for a couple of long moments, before he actually pulls him closer, into his lap. Now, 'tousan hardly ever does things like that anymore, and Seymour is completely surprised, but he doesn't protest. The touch isn't unpleasant, quite the opposite._

"You have to leave Guadosalam," _Father says._

"No! I don't want to–!" _There are tears in his eyes, he knows, and he feels bad about it. __Father has never liked to see him cry… but this time there is no disappointment in the man's gaze, only something akin to hatred. Is it because of his outburst? _"Chichiue?"_ he tries uncertainly. _"Are you angry with me?"

"No,"_ the man interrupts sharply, _"I'm not angry with you. It's not your fault."_ And then he utters one of those_ bad, ugly _words, words that Seymour isn't even supposed to know, because well-mannered people don't use them, anyway._

_If it is not his fault, then why is Father so upset? He falls silent for a while, trying hard to understand, yet failing miserably._

"When will we come back?" _Unfortunately, 'tousan can't answer, because exactly at this moment 'kaasan appears in the doorway._

"_Seymour_,"_ her voice is harsh, hostile. _"_What are you doing here?_"

_The boy tenses; why is she acting like this? He hasn't done anything bad, has he? Why are they both so mad at him?_

_But… she isn't even looking his way. Her gaze is fixed solely on father's face, and when Seymour looks up, he discovers that the man is staring back at her._

"_Don't you know how late it already is?_"_ she snaps irritably. _"_Come._"

_He is scared, but listens anyway_—_or rather _tries_ to listen. Father's hands are still holding him tightly, and he cannot move. Mother notices this, too, and her expression changes into that of fury and…_

_Sadness?_

"_Jyscal,_"_ she says after an uncomfortably long moment. _"_Don't. Please. You will regret it someday._"

"_I am afraid that you are right,_" _Father replies in a dry, humorless voice. _"_But I don't have a choice, do I? It wouldn't work, anyway. They tolerated you as my mistress… wife, even. But now… you've seen it with your own eyes. After his_ _birth, they just won't stay silent._"_ The boy frowns, why are his parents saying things like that? _"_Neither of you can live here any longer. I simply cannot guarantee your safety anymore._"

"'Tousan?" _He looks up, even though he knows it's very rude to interrupt. _"What's a '_mistress_'?"

"_It's not fair, Jyscal," Mother whispers harshly, and she's almost… crying? _"_We leave, and what happens next? Will you find yourself some green-haired beauty and have a perfect Guado child with her? Even though our marriage isn't officially over?_"

_…Over? What's going on?_

"_No, I will not,_" _Father is dangerously close to loosing his temper. Suddenly, Seymour doesn't feel safe in his lap anymore, but he can't run away, not really, because the man is clutching him so tightly, too tightly_–

"'Tousan,"_ he whimpers, struggling to break free from these large, incredibly strong hands. _"I can't breathe!"

_Mother's eyes are dark, full of mockery. _"_Well, obviously, it's what they want, isn't it? They will find you some whore within a month from our depart_–"

"_Avalon,_" _Father hisses. He is furious now. _"_We've been through this many times before. I have already told you that_–"

"_Not in front of the child,_"_ she suddenly interrupts, and Father instantly falls silent, even though he's still angry. Slowly, his grip loosens, and Seymour is finally able to jump down from his lap_––_but he doesn't do it at once. There's something wrong with 'kaasan's eyes, and it's _scary_…_

"_Come, Seymour,_"_ she says at last._ "_We need to get up early tomorrow._"_ Her voice is still far from normal, but he walks up to her, anyway––what other choice does he have? She promptly lifts him into her arms, as she keeps glaring at the sitting man. Seymour bits his lip, her touch doesn't feel nice. She's holding him like… like a_ something_, not _somebody_. Much like 'tousan did only a short while ago… _"Say goodbye to your lord father,"_ she demands coldly, and strangely enough, just this once her Guado accent doesn't strike him as funny, _"because you will never see him again."

* * *

The chamber was long, narrow and empty, except for the many padded benches that ran along its uneven, wooden walls. It resembled a throne room of sorts, even though there was no actual throne in sight, and all seats looked identical.

Only one of those seats was taken.

Seymour really, _really_ didn't want to be here. He felt so small in this hall, so totally out of place. Still wearing his simple, traveling robes, with his hair pulled back into a short, messy braid, he knew he must have looked terrible, especially compared to his father's magnificent figure. When it came to appearances, Lord Jyscal was the very epitome of Guado wealth, masculinity and grace: well-built, tall, long-fingered, complete with a thoughtful, intelligent gaze.

Faris had escorted the boy nearly all the way to the maester's seat, then fell to the floor, only to stand up and flee––yes, _flee_––a couple of seconds later. Seymour wished that the captain hadn't left him all alone. He wasn't sure how to act, where to look, what to say… and was he really supposed to bow _like this_, when it seemed so strange and unnatural?

He could hear the soft rustling of his father's robes, of course, but he still kept his head low, even when the man rose and took a few steps in his direction. The prolonging silence was awful, stiff with tension, filled with suppressed, restrained emotions.

"_Shimoa_…" the lord said slowly, as if tasting his son's long unspoken name on his lips, and only then did the boy finally look up. "_Don't be afraid, my child_._ Come closer_… _It has been an eternity, it seems. __You have changed_."

Seymour didn't move. He wasn't afraid, just a bit… a bit…

A bit _what_, actually?

Alright, so maybe it was fear… mixed with awe, curiosity, distrust… So many different feelings, and it was terribly confusing.

"_I said, don't be afraid of me, child. Don't you remember me at all?_" Jyscal's commanding, yet somehow sorrowful voice broke the uneasy silence.

Seymour wordlessly shook his head. Over the past five years, his father had become an almost empty name, a distant, faceless figure. Back then, on Baaj, when he had tried to think of him––of home, in general––all he could remember had been some fuzzy images, small shards of happy childhood memories: a swing somewhere in the garden, narrow stairs that led into a dusty storeroom filled with strange chests, silver trees shining in the dark… but those had been _places_, not people.

Jyscal raised a hand to his temple, as if suddenly having to deal with a horrible headache. He was silent for a long while, carefully studying his son's blank face. "_You look just like your grandfather,_" he finally said, not a hint of a smile on his tight, pale lips. "_…Yes, what a striking resemblance._" He chuckled slightly, even though he still appeared rather angry. "_Wait until they see_ this."

They? Who? Seymour blinked in surprise, what was his father talking about? He looked _nothing_ like his grandfather, that much he knew for sure. Gwyan-dono was an old, tall, sinewy man, with gray hair and–

"_Come_," his father said. "_I will show you_."

He was led farther into the mansion, up a couple of stairs, past a few doors and through a dimly lit corridor, until they finally entered an incredibly long, spacious hallway, filled with hundreds––no, _thousands_––of portraits. The boy nearly paused in his steps, staring around in bewilderment, but his father instantly threw him an impatient look, and he had no other choice but to follow.

"_The Guado are the oldest race on Spira_," Jyscal began in a strong, authoritative voice that simply demanded attention. They both kept walking, on and on, until Seymour started to suspect that they would never stop. "_Older even then the Ronso_. _The many portraits on these walls, __they are all your ancestors, Shimoa_._ It is an impressive heritage for you to live up to_," he paused, turning briefly to glance at his son. "_Regardless of what people may tell you, you are still a part of this place, and you should never think otherwise_. _Those who will stand in your way are only jealous of your position_. _Those who will try to support you may turn out to be traitors_. _You need to grow independent and learn how to tell a lie from the truth_."

Seymour nodded, still a bit overwhelmed with the man's speech. He felt like choking on the enormous responsibility suddenly pushed onto his shoulders, so soon after he had set foot in this place—but on the other hand, he could feel a great of acceptance in his father's words, and it filled him with immense relief. Before he could ponder over the meaning of it all, however, Jyscal stopped abruptly in front of one of the pictures.

"_You_ are _a part of this heritage_," he said calmly. "_Look_."

The boy lifted his gaze—and finally understood what his father had meant earlier.

The person in the portrait, a man in his early forties, perhaps, stared back at him with a pair of violet eyes. They were pretty, yet with an unmistakable hint of coldness and cruelty to them. His hair was blue, exactly the same shade as Seymour's. Long and twisted, tied back loosely in a traditional fashion, it hung over the man's shoulders, reaching well past his waist. And his facial features...

The eleven-year-old boy found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the image. There were many differences between him and the Guado, of course, based on their respective ages and racial backgrounds alone… but still, it was just like his father had said: a striking resemblance.

"_Doys van Brama_," said the maester, his voice calm and detached. "_My father. You are his heir, Shimoa. _My_ heir. Your portrait, too, will hang on these walls one day."_

Seymour nodded in silence. He could only guess that it was his father's unusual way of saying 'Welcome home'.

"_You haven't spoken a single word so far, child._" Jyscal looked almost worried. "_Is there really nothing you want to say to me, after all this time?_"

The boy swallowed and lowered his head, feeling that it would be quite safe to look at the floor, instead of meeting the man's hypnotizing gaze.

"_I_…_ I missed you, father_," he finally said, suddenly realizing that it was true, and at the same time inwardly wincing at his own words. They sounded so utterly pathetic, so artificial, no matter how real they might be. Not to mention––he cringed at this thought, too––that compared to his father's, his own accent was now horrible. He had spent too much time with soldiers and servants, it seemed, because it showed clearly in the way he spoke.

It was the lord's turn to remain silent. "…_Go now, child_._ I shall see you tomorrow morning. __I still need to ask you a couple of questions, so b__e prepared to answer_."

* * *

That night he had trouble falling asleep. He felt strange in this place, alien, insecure. The palace was huge, much bigger that he had remembered, and his room––it wasn't his old one, he could swear––seemed cold and unfamiliar. He lay in his bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling, until, eventually, the trees' sweet melody lulled him to an exhausted, dreamless slumber.

The morning came, and he didn't feel any better. In fact, many things irritated him beyond measure. It irritated him how the maid talked to him––in slow, broken sentences, as if somehow unable to believe that he _really_ understood her. It irritated him how _formal_ she was––stiff, reserved, awfully polite, yet also very distant at the same time, as if she didn't like the idea of touching him. (Faris had sometimes helped him dress, too, and he had never been like this, had he?) It irritated him how she carefully combed his hair down, as if trying to hide his ears––they were different from _theirs_, he knew, but still, why was she making such a fuss about it? Her long, sharp-nailed fingers irritated him, too, so much unlike his mother's soft, delicate ones…

Even his own reflection in the mirror was annoying, because although his face still appeared distinctively boyish, he was under the impression that he looked like _a girl_ in this formal, decorative haori, with his longish, blue hair falling down onto his shoulders, not really managing to cover a pair of shiny, diamond earrings…

_I can't see what's wrong with these clothes, Your Highness _– the maid said surprisingly harshly, when he had dared to complain. – _It's the finest silk I've ever seen, sewn by the best Guado artisans, too. Not some tight, buffoonish costume only a_ barbarian _could wear._

The reference to human fashion was clear. Seymour pressed his lips and didn't say anything else.

* * *

"_Usually, I don't eat breakfast this late_," his father told him calmly, pouring himself some wine, since all their servants were absent from the chamber. "_Today, however, I made an exception for you_." Seymour bristled slightly; the man had made it sound nearly like a reproach, whereas it wasn't _his_ fault that nobody had woken him up earlier. "_I assume that you have already recovered from your journey?_"

The boy didn't answer at first, having just noticed the contents of their table. Some things he had probably eaten before––although he wasn't quite sure about most of them––but the others… Well, they looked completely inedible, at least compared to everything he had tasted in the past five years.

How much else had he forgotten? It was _still_ his home, wasn't it…?

Looking up from his plate, he suddenly realized that the silence had lasted for too long. Jyscal seemed slightly impatient.

"_Yes_," he replied quickly. "_I guess so… 'tousan._"

"_'I guess so, my lord'_," his father corrected him instantly, not a trace of irritation in his voice.

"_Wha_–" Seymour bit his tongue before it was too late, blushing furiously in embarrassment. Yes, definitely too much time in soldiers' company. "_I mean… I beg your pardon?_"

"_'My lord'_," the man repeated calmly, taking a sip from his decorative glass. "_It is how everybody is supposed to address the Lord of Guadosalam, including you, Shimoa._ _Hm…? What is the matter?_" Jyscal titled his head to the side. Only then did Seymour realize that he had been staring.

"_I… ah… I'm_ _sorry. It's_ _nothing._"

Jyscal sighed; his brow suddenly furrowed in a rare display of emotion. "_You are not a little boy anymore, Shimoa. Not an adult yet, of course, but past your tenth birthday, thus no longer a child who can be forgiven any blunder. As such, you have to hold on to etiquette. Tiresome as it may seem at first, you will soon get used to it._"

_Even when we are alone?_ Seymour wondered, but didn't dare to ask out loud.

"_It is for your own good, anyway,_" the man added as a second thought. "_You cannot afford making any mistakes, do you understand_?" The boy nodded, surprised with the urgency in Jyscal's voice. "_Ah, they would have never forgiven _you, _of all people…_"

Seymour lowered his gaze. It seemed that his father had once again lapsed into an odd, contemplative silence. His behavior made little sense right now, anyway, and the boy quickly decided that he would think about it later. Picking up a pair of long, elegant chopsticks, he tried to concentrate on his food instead. The strange brown mushrooms had a funny taste, which wasn't unpleasant, yet not particularly nice, either.

"_Shimoa_," Lord Jyscal spoke suddenly. Without thinking, the boy raised his head, and the look in his father's eyes instantly made him forget about breakfast. "_Tell me about Zanarkand. What happened there?_"

With a loud, perfectly audible crack, the chopsticks snapped in two in Seymour's fingers.

He had expected this, of course, yet he still felt like weeping in frustration. Why did _everybody_ insist on asking him this question? He had already told his grandfather everything he could remember, there was nothing more… and he certainly didn't want to go through this story _twice_…

"_Shimoa…_" Jyscal took a deep breath. "_I know it is hard for you, but I must know_… _I simply must!" _The usually composed man was visibly upset. With an odd mixture of fear and fascination, Seymour discovered that he could not tear his gaze away from the maester's long, trembling fingers. "_Why did she go to Zanarkand? Why didn't she stay on Baaj?_"

He knew that he would eventually have to reply, no matter how badly he wanted to remain silent. "_She was dying_," he whispered softly.

"_Dying_?" Jyscal echoed, disbelief clearly written across his aging face. "_But… why? She has never mentioned anything about_–"

"_She never wanted you to know_," Seymour mumbled, "_…that's why she never told you_. _Maybe she just didn't want to upset you… but she forced all servants to keep her illness a secret._ _Letters from…_" he frowned, "_from home came so rarely that it wasn't very difficult to hide it from you_."

If Lord Jyscal noticed and was somehow displeased by the lack of proper form of address in his son's speech, he certainly didn't let it show. He kept opening and closing his mouth, apparently wanting to say something, yet quite unable to. "_But it still doesn't explain_," he spoke after a long pause, standing up, "why_ she would go to Zanarkand, taking almost everyone with her…_"

"_She… she…_" Seymour stuttered, realizing that the worst part was still to come, "_she wanted_ _us…_" -_just get it over with_- "_well, _me _to…_" -_and don't you dare to start crying_- "_…defeat Sin_."

-_and, for some reason or other, I messed it all up_-

Jyscal was speechless for a long while. "_…Why_?" he finally managed.

"_She wanted…_ 'to save Spira'," he recited almost automatically; after all, _she_ had used that phrase so many times before…

"'To save Spira'_…_?"

"_Yes… that's why she took us both to Zanarkand… and… and became a _fayth."

"_A…_ fayth_…_"

"_Yes_," Seymour nodded slowly, no longer caring about his tears. His father couldn't see them anyway; he stood at the opposite side of the chamber, with his back turned on the boy.

"_…How_?" The question was harsh, demanding.

"_I don't know… I can't remember anything…_" He was sobbing openly now, and he hated himself for being so weak in this man's presence. "_Is… is that all… chichue? …Can I go now? Please_?"

"_No_," his father said sharply, "_there is one final thing. Show me the aeon_."

* * *

_He can't run. He can't hide. He can't scream._

_He is completely paralyzed._

_He can only watch._

_The last guard falls to the ground with a broken neck. At least he didn't suffer much, unlike some others, __whose chests had been ripped open by her magic._

"_No one walks out of here alive._"_ Her soft voice belies the gruesome words._ "_The secrets of Zanarkand shall remain within these walls._"

_The astral chamber is once again silent, except for his own, ragged breathing. The beautiful, white-haired woman straightens herself up, absently raising a small, slender hand to examine her fingers. They are covered in blood; she frowns and shakes the remaining droplets away. A few pyreflies escape from her body, and her skin is once again flawless, unmarred by any red stains._

_He can't move. His limbs are made of ice. Sprawled on the floor in the farthest corner of the narrow platform, he can only stare at the sight._

_This isn't really happening, is it?_

_Slowly, he tries to push himself up to a sitting position. It's rather difficult. His arms won't stop shaking._

_She finally looks down at him, and there is neither malice nor a trace of compassion in her eyes, only pure indifference. He gasps_––_and yet doesn't back away, because he simply _can't––_when she takes a couple of steps in his direction, stopping but a few meters away._

"_So, boy,_"_ she begins._ "_Are you ready?_"

_He can't answer her, he can't speak at all. Lady Yunalesca shakes her head, extending a hand towards him, as if trying to help him stand up._

"_There is nothing to fear. You will soon be freed of worry and pain, for once you call forth the Final Aeon, your life will end. Death is the ultimate and final liberation._"

_He stares at her hand for a moment, but then he can't help himself_––_his eyes dart back to the side._

"_Boy…?_"_ Lady Yunalesca frowns, reflexively following his gaze. Ah, yes, the child's mother lies there, her eyes still wide open and body intact_––_only the soul has been taken. She would have looked almost peaceful if it weren't for the pained, frightened expression on her face._

"_It is okay, my dear. Your mother's sacrifice was beautiful, she will make a splendid aeon. I am sure that you will have no trouble defeating Sin. Do not worry. I will help you._"

_He meets her gaze, shaking just as badly as before. She smiles at him in an almost reassuring manner._

"_But_…_ you just s-said that Sin will be reborn,_"_ he finally chokes out._

"_Correct. It is eternal. Every aeon that defeats it becomes Sin in its place._"

_-_Every aeon that defeats it…- "_S-she w-will… Mother will…_"

"_Yes, she will. Such is the nature of Sin,_"_ Yunalesca admits calmly in her low, singing voice._ "_What are you waiting for, boy? Just think about it… you will bring a new Calm to Spira. People will worship you as a High Summoner… It was your mother's wish, I think._"

"_S-she will…_"_ -_become the next Sin?-

"_Just do it,_"_ Yunalesca grows impatient._ "_And it will be all over._"

_Mama…_

_Why…?_

"_I can't do it!_"_ he cries out._ "_I don't want her to become Sin! I won't do it!_"

_She watches the hysterical boy for a while, finally flipping her long hair over her shoulder._ "_…Do not be unreasonable._"

"_I just_ won't"_ he cries, glaring up at her from his spot on the floor. He looks pathetic and deadly serious at the same time._

"_Well,_"_ she seems rather disappointed,_ "_suit yourself. But then I will just have to kill you, and your mother's sacrifice will be all in vain… do you really want that, child?_"

_He is back on his feet in an instant, his breath coming out in short gasps. _"_No!_"

_A second later he brakes into a run, disappearing through the portal before she can actually react._

_What a nuisance._

_It is exactly as she said. No one walks out of this place alive._

* * *

"_Shimoa-sama_!"

"No!" he screamed in fright, not fully aware of what was happening. "No! Stay away!"

"_Your Highness!_?"

A man's voice, not hers, not her laughter, not–

Still panting heavily, as if he had really just run through the entire dome, Seymour dared to lower his arms a bit, only to find himself staring straight into an unfamiliar Guado face. He blinked a couple of times, frantically trying to figure out where he was, not recognizing his surroundings at first. Finally, after a few long, horrifying moments, he realized what was going on. He was in his bedroom. In Guadosalam. And he had just woken up from a terrible nightmare–

Not a nightmare!

It had been a real memory… Seymour moaned, squeezing his eyes shut and clutching his head with both hands. It didn't help him at all––the sounds, smells, images remained buried within his mind, frozen under his eyelids… Mother's eyes, when she had kissed him goodbye, his own growing terror, her pained gasp when Lady Yunalesca– No! he didn't _want_ to remember! Her eyes had been so hollow. She had murdered _everyone_… no remorse, no regrets, nothing… She had almost caught him, too. Almost. He remembered running back through the empty corridor, slipping and falling down at least several times, yet struggling on, towards the gate, desperately wanting to get outside, out of that place–

Someone was shaking him gently. Looking up, he realized it was the Guado from before: a servant, and he seemed quite frightened, too.

"_Your Highness…?_"

"_I… I'm fine…_" Seymour whispered, his throat still sore from screaming too much. "_It was… just a dream._"

"_Young master…_" The man didn't appear very convinced. "_Are you sure you are alright?_"

"_Yes, I'm sure," _he insisted, surprised at the sudden strength in his voice, strength that he thought he didn't have. "_Leave."_

As soon as the hesitant servant was gone, Seymour's body once again turned limp and the boy fell back on his pillows. Yes, he remembered it now… all too clearly…

Mother had been weeping… Why? She had always wanted this, hadn't she? She had told him to be strong, to be brave, to stop crying. _Everything is alright_, she had said, bending down to hug him for the last time. _You will save Spira and people will love you for that. Don't be afraid, sweetheart. I won't die, not really. I will leave you only for a short while and then you will join me, and we will stay together… Forever_._ In death_.

_Death_, he wondered. Why was death so beautiful? Why couldn't they both stay _alive_?

…And it wouldn't have worked, anyway. Sin was immortal. It couldn't be defeated. There was no hope for Spira, other than the Final Summoning.

But… the Final Summoning… it was just a lie, wasn't it?

He hadn't saved Spira. He had failed his mother's expectations. She was now suffering from a fate worse than death. Father knew and he probably hated him for it.

* * *

He tried to occupy himself with reading. Not that it really helped much. Usually, he would just sit with an open book in his lap, staring down at the pages, not understanding a single word, because his mind was far, far away. In Zanarkand.

Several uneventful days had passed since his father had made him summon the aeon, still nameless and without a temple. Seymour felt exhausted, unable to sleep, unable to do anything else but _remember_. He would wake up a couple of times every night, screaming, crying, sobbing, shaking, calling out for his mother…

He was driving his servants mad, he knew. Father didn't seem to care. Did he even realize?

Perhaps not. After all, they hadn't even seen each other after that day, and the boy certainly didn't feel like trying to talk to the man without his permission, afraid of angering him even more––because Lord Jyscal, one of the strongest, calmest men Seymour had ever known, had nearly fainted in shock and revulsion when he had seen the aeon.

* * *

He was slowly beginning to suspect that _this_ was going to turn into a habit. Every time his father wanted something from him, Seymour would be summoned to the dinning room, to accompany the man in one of his meals… as if the lord was somehow unable to concentrate on his son only. Seymour wondered if this was the case, absently picking up a pair of hashi. Father's presence only made him uneasy… but still…

Didn't the man care at all…?

"_Shimoa_," Jyscal's voice startled him, pulling him out of his thoughts. "_The fayth… it needs a temple_."

Eyes widening in utter disbelief, Seymour nearly dropped his food to the table. So that was what his mother was now, reduced to a mere 'it' by a man who had once––or so the official palace rumor went, anyway––loved her dearly?

"_Yes…_'it'_ does_," he agreed blankly, suddenly not interested in his meal anymore. He felt sick.

"_True_," Jyscal either hadn't heard the sarcasm in his son's voice, or he had simply chosen to ignore it. "_I have decided to create one within the next couple of months, __a year at the very most_. _I think that Baaj would be a very suitable place_," he paused, as if waiting for Seymour to reply.

"_Ah_," the boy's voice was quiet, empty, concealing his inner turmoil almost perfectly. "_I see_."

"_I will write a letter to the Grand Temple_," Jyscal went on calmly, so calmly that it almost seemed unnatural. "_I am sure that they will send someone straight away_. _First, I need to see these people here, of course, but they will be dispatched to Baaj as soon as possible._ _Would you like to go with them, then, to supervise their work_?"

-_Wanting to send me away so soon?_-

Seymour flinched. "_…No_."

"_No_?" his father looked genuinely surprised.

The boy's mask slipped away for a moment. "_I… I will go only when the temple is ready… please._"

"_Fine_," the man said calmly, after a short pause. "_If that is what you wish_."

"_Wouldn't you…_" He froze, but it was already too late, he had no other choice but to finish his sentence. "_Wouldn't you go,_ _too…_ _chichiue_?"

"_No_," his father replied instantly.

Seymour's hands on his knees were dangerously close to digging into his skin and drawing blood, but he didn't lower his eyes. "_Why_?"

"_I would rather never see her again_," came the harsh reply. The boy pressed his lips into a thin line; so it was 'her' now, wasn't it? "_There is no need for that_. _Dwelling on the past is useless_."

* * *

-Dwelling on the past is useless. You _are_ a part of this heritage. You need to grow independent and learn how to tell a lie from the truth.-

-Find yourself some purpose in life. You do realize that you will become a maester someday, don't you? She would have wanted it… I'm sure of it.-

-We are leaving, Seymour. I want us… you… to save Spira. Use me and defeat Sin… only then will the people accept you.-

-It is eternal. Every aeon that defeats it becomes Sin in its place. What are you waiting for, boy? It was your mother's wish, I think.-

* * *

He was truly alone now, he knew, stuck in a maze of other people's choices, decisions, expectations, some of which he had already failed. His life had never been his own, and there was no way out of this madness. He wanted to leave the past behind, but the past still lived within him, slowly eating his soul away.

* * *

End of Part Four

* * *

Coming up next: Part Five: _Changes_

* * *

Author's Notes:

1) Yes, there will be another chapter, just like I said. I still need to post an extra, additional epilogue, in which Seymour will return to Baaj and learn the truth behind his mother's wish to 'save Spira' (not that it's so hard to guess, anyway).

2) Yes, _my_ little Seymour wears long, diamond earrings – about five centimeters long, to be precise. And he _still_ looks like a boy, every inch a perfect bishounen. Besides, I generally imagine him with normal hair, thick and twisted, yes, but not exactly gravity-defying. I _told_ you, I _am_ a sick fangirl. Got a problem with that? ;)

3) I'm obsessed with accents and languages, can't you tell? I love writing a bilingual Seymour, in fact, I make almost all my fic characters bilingual, even if they are not.

4) Don't be shy, leave me some comments! I really want to know how many people are reading this story. Well, and I'd also like to remind you that I'm not afraid of criticism… if you feel that some things in this chapter could've been written better, just say so! My English's far from perfect, too – any messed up expressions you noticed, perhaps? Okay, then: click the blue button! It's not that difficult. Pretty please?


	5. Changes

Author's Notes: I'm very sorry for being dead and unproductive for so long. Well, it's time to get back to business…

Surprisingly enough, this chapter doesn't start with a flashback (yup, I just love writing these). As you can see, it's about as long as the previous ones, and I can only hope you won't find it terribly boring. ;) As usual, you should expect unhealthy amounts of angst… but you'll be spared random acts of happy fangirlishness – yes, just this once I'm letting Seymour walk around in one piece, which means no blood, no earrings and absolutely no make-up. Oh, dear. What a pity. :P

Unfortunately, it's also a huge Faris' comeback… Ah, but Seymour just _had_ to interact with someone (or do you really need huge, angst-ridden monologues that badly…?) and making an entirely new OC was definitely out of question. Why create a brand new superstar for the show, I ask, if we already have one? -snickers-

Most importantly, though, with the final journey to Baaj, Seymour's childhood will slowly be coming to a close. No, it's not the last part, either, but I certainly don't plan on making this fic longer than necessary. For now, simply enjoy this chapter and tell me if it needs any improvement (okay, it's not a question of 'if', but 'where' and 'how much' :)).

PS: If you're trying to imagine Baaj, as it is pictured in this story, just think of something vaguely resembling Kilika Temple. :) I'm too lazy (and incompetent) to describe things in detail. My apologies.

* * *

Part Five

_Changes_

* * *

Baaj was nothing but a tiny dot on the horizon––a dot that was steadily growing larger, stretching into a thin line, and then changing into a misty outline of a lonely island, no bigger than a couple of gentle, average-sized hills. On the top of one of these hills, there stood a round, cream-colored building, partially hidden from view by a small forest.

"_Hm, __not exactly what I've expected._" Faris raised a hand to his eyes, unsuccessfully trying to shield them from the brilliant, morning light. "_It doesn't look that bad, does it?_"

"_No, I suppose not_," behind the man's back, Seymour only shrugged. In broad daylight, on a warm, magnificent day like this, one could easily call this place beautiful… "_You've never seen it in winter, though_."

…Beautiful or not, he really wished he hadn't been forced to take this trip. Nevertheless, two years ago Lord Jyscal had thought it suitable to have his wife's soul buried _here_, on this distant island, and basically, that was that, no 'buts' allowed, even if it meant yet another insanely long, tiring journey for his son––which was why, on this very morning, about two months after his thirteenth birthday, a very unhappy, very frustrated Seymour had finally found himself less than six miles away from his previous 'home'.

"_In winter?_" the captain mused, leaning back and letting go of the ship's railing. "_But_… _aren't these things palm trees?_ _Does it ever get cold on such tropical islands?_"

It could've been worse, Seymour thought for perhaps a thousandth time since he had left Macalania. At least he had someone to keep him company. And even though he knew that asking Faris to come along had been quite a selfish request on his part, he had never truly regretted it. So far, the man's presence had been making the whole experience slightly more bearable; not only less dreadful, but also much less boring.

"…_No._ _But it _does_ rain. A lot_."

Faris' shoulders tensed slightly at this. Just like most other Guado, born at least two hundred miles away from the coast, then raised under a thick forest canopy, where rain hardly ever reached, the captain wasn't particularly fond of anything that consisted of large amounts of water… such as tiny, showery islands surrounded by stormy seas: Baaj, in other words. Once again, Seymour felt a bit guilty for dragging Faris into all this, but the uneasiness was quickly gone. After all, _he_ wasn't having the time of his life, either. Right now, for example, he couldn't even walk up to the older man, simply because it would mean coming too close to the railing. True, the ocean was calm today, but the ship's considerable speed still made the cerulean depths boil, and the mere sight of it made Seymour weary, not to mention slightly nauseous.

"_It's a good thing we came in fall, then_," came Faris' simple reply.

"_Oh, but fall's basically the same_."

The captain craned his neck to get a better view of the clear, blue sky. "_Somehow, I can't believe it_."

"_Maybe it won't rain, then._" A tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Seymour finally turned his head in the island's direction – and his eyes instantly regained their previous, somber look. "_How much longer?_"

The young officer sighed. He had very little experience with ships, which made him unable to answer the boy's question with much accuracy. Still, it wasn't too hard to guess that no more than four miles separated them from the shore. "_Soon enough, my lord. You'd better get ready_."

* * *

There was no real port on Baaj, only a small, lovely bay, equipped with a short, wooden pier. Just as expected, a couple of men were already standing there, patiently awaiting the ship's arrival.

Naturally, the first people who caught Seymour's attention were the three priests from the Temple, the only humans in a group of Guado. Two of them seemed to be about his father's age, and generally didn't make a very fine first impression. Dressed in heavy, splendid robes that matched neither the weather nor the occasion, they both looked as if they could use some serious dieting. The third one, on the other hand, was an old, lanky man who appeared nearly fragile, especially compared to his two plump companions. It didn't make him any more likeable. He had strange, almost empty eyes, one glance at them was enough to send shivers down Seymour's spine.

A tall Guado to his left bowed deeply, pulling the boy out of his thoughts. "_Shimoa-sama, it is an honor to meet you_," he began in a formal, official tone. "_I am Eregi van Alanya, and I have been in charge of this island for the previous eight months, making sure that everything would be ready for your arrival. These men are the priests kindly sent to us by the Temple_. Idlib-_dono, _Malin-_dono __and_ Orsa-_dono_."

The three men obviously didn't understand much of what van Alanya was saying, but each of them nodded slightly at the mentioning of his own name.

"_I am very grateful for your hard work_, _Eregi-san_," Seymour absently recited the well-known cliché. Now it was time to exchange all the official bows with the priests, and he could only hope that none of them would feel obliged to actually _say_ anything. The sooner it was over, the better–

"Welcome to Baaj, Your Highness. I trust that your journey has been safe?" –No, it just wasn't his lucky day. Seymour wordlessly tilted his head to the side, trying to give the man his best 'yes, do go on, I'm not really listening to you' look, but the hint obviously wasn't taken. – "I'm pleased to say that the temple is almost finished by now. A couple of murals still need to be polished, and we had also encountered a small problem with–"

"Spare me the details," he interrupted abruptly. No 'please' at the end of his sentence immediately earned him a small hiss of disapproval from Faris' direction, but the boy simply ignored it and went on in a nearly identical manner, "Just finish your work as quickly as possible. I don't care about anything else."

"…Of course," the priest nodded. If he felt offended, he certainly didn't let it show. Seymour was about to excuse himself from everyone else's presence, when suddenly the oldest cleric broke the silence.

"Oh, but there is no need to worry. I understand how you must feel–"

Did he, really? The sleeves of Seymour's shirt were spacious enough to hide his clenched fists from view, but there was no way he could keep his anger away from his face.

"–for we are all very impatient. It is not often that a new fayth is born to the world of Spira. Such an event is truly going to be a joyous day for us all! Soon enough, summoners will travel to Baaj, seeking the powers buried within this Chamber of the Fayth, looking for–"

Travel to…? The boy froze, too shocked to think of a coherent answer at once.

"–a powerful ally that will aid them in their sacred journey to defeat Sin." The priest paused to catch his breath. "Of course," he began after a while, a thoughtful expression on this face, "it is a bit unfortunate to have this temple situated so far away from the continent, but I am certain that Maester Jyscal had his reasons to–"

"There will be no pilgrimages to this temple," Seymour had found his voice at last, and it was much, much colder than usual.

"–choose this locati––I beg your pardon?" Idlib just blinked at him, a look of mild annoyance finally crossing his features.

"Are you serious, Your Highness?" This time it was one of the middle-aged priests who had spoken, the one called Malin.

"Yes," the boy hissed. "And I would've really appreciated it if you didn't talk about matters that you can't understand."

Idlib aep Lani wasn't silent for long. "No pilgrimages? I am afraid that it would have been very much against the teachings," he declared sternly, completely oblivious of the boy's murderous glare. "All aeons are created to assist the summoners, to fight for the people of Spira. They are a gift from above, the ultimate proof of Yevon's infinite mercy! Their powers alone should serve as a reminder of His glory! Trying to keep an aeon from fulfilling its duties is an unforgivable sacrilege that–"

A direct blow to his face would have been probably less painful. Duties? Yevon's infinite mercy? It was all rubbish! She had died for _nothing_, trying to break a cycle that––as he had learned only a couple of moments after her death––could _never_ be broken!

(…_was beautiful; she will make a splendid aeon_…)

Yunalesca's pale, delicate face flashed before his eyes, and he quickly shook his head to make it go away, but it only made things worse.

(…_suit yourself_…)

(…_but then_…)

(…_your mother's sacrifice_…)

(…_all in vain_…)

"YOU–" Seymour really, _really_ wanted to continue, but he was never given the chance to.

"_You are forgetting yourself, my lord_," Faris' voice was deceptively dispassionate, but the boy knew better: the captain's sharp, polished nails were digging hard into his right shoulder, so hard that it actually hurt. He fell silent at once, his entire body still tense, fists clenched in a gesture of defiance. At least the old priest was quiet now, too, perhaps startled by the child's sudden outburst.

"You will respect His Highness's wishes, whether you like it or not," Faris' tone was perfectly polite, but it left very little room for disagreement.

…And then there was something else being said, something about Maester Jyscal's orders, most likely, but Seymour was no longer listening, trying his best to calm himself down, finally managing to stop shaking. Only then did the captain's hand raise from his shoulder.

* * *

"_My lord, you shouldn't have lost your temper like that_," Faris' voice was oddly serious, marked by a slight hint of reproach.

"…_You heard them_," Seymour kept walking, not even bothering to look back at the man, as they were both climbing a long row of white, uneven steps that lead to the top of the hill, all the way to the building's main entrance. "_It was just_… _all wrong_."

"_I understand, __but still, these men had no idea_."

No, of course not. "…_And you have no idea, either_."

"_Your Highness_…?"

This time, there was no calm reasoning in the man's voice, only sheer disbelief. Sighing heavily, Seymour finally came to a halt, turning around to meet a pair of worried eyes. Yes, Faris was familiar with the real purpose of this trip, he knew who the Fayth was… yet he had only heard Lord Jyscal's dry, official story. A story that had _nothing_ to do with the actual nightmare from three years ago. The story that had _never_ mentioned anything about the whole teachings of Yevon being a huge, fabulous lie…

In fact, Seymour had never told his father about the truth he had learned in Zanarkand. Unable to predict the man's reaction, and at the same time unwilling to go through his memories once again, he had kept everything to himself. And things were most likely to remain so.

"_Your Highness_?" the captain asked quietly. "_Are you alright_?"

Ever so slowly, Seymour shook his head. "_It's_… _complicated_. _More than you could possibly imagine._" He looked down at the large, polished rocks. "_I just_… _want to leave, as soon as possible_. _I thought… I though that I wanted to see this place again_… _but now I don't_. _Not anymore_."

"_Has it changed so much?_" Faris asked calmly, turning his head away from the motionless boy. They had already climbed enough steps to be rewarded with a splendid view of the bay, complete with a narrow, sandy beach, the jungle, and also their small, red-white ship, surrounded by a circle of perfectly clear, shimmering water. Though not as beautiful as the forests of Macalania, it was definitely a very nice sight––honestly, the captain couldn't find anything wrong with it.

"_No_…" Seymour shook his head once again, already turning around to resume the climbing. "_It hasn't_. _But _I _certainly have_."

* * *

Strangely enough, it felt more like coming home than it ever had two years ago, in Guadosalam.

As soon as he had managed to leave Faris behind, he stumbled into the poker-faced Eregi van Alanya, who immediately offered him his company, not to mention a completely unnecessary tour of the temple. Without thinking too much, Seymour quickly sent the man away, back to his work. He knew the former palace like the back of his hand, and the only thing he needed to ask about was the location of the soon-to-be Chamber of the Fayth. For now, he decided to avoid this place like a plague.

Eregi had told him that the major part of the temple rooms was situated upstairs, which meant that _downstairs_ was perfectly safe. Seymour absently wandered through the corridors, taking his sweet time to peer into every open chamber, ignoring all servants and workers he might have startled with his sudden appearance. Much to his relief, the main building really hadn't changed much. Sure, a couple of years ago it had looked… brighter. There had been more windows, more flowers, and certainly no decorative, religious symbols on the walls. Still, if one forgot about those slightly disturbing improvements, everything else appeared pretty much the same…

Well, not _exactly_ the same.

* * *

"_What are these things? And what are they doing here?_"

The tone was harsh, angry, demanding, definitely not something to be ignored. Asnam, a young, sixteen-year-old servant, instantly jumped to his feet, whirling around only to find himself no more than a few inches away from a very angry, scowling… prince? Of course, he had never seen this boy before, but one look at the beautiful, elaborate hairstyle was enough. With a loud, startled yelp, which had probably alarmed half of the building at once, Asnam took two or three hurried steps back, almost tripping over an empty bucket in the process. Then, overcoming his initial shock, he finally remembered that he was supposed to bow––so he did, inwardly cursing his sudden clumsiness. And when he straightened himself up, the younger boy's cold, lavender eyes were still fixed directly on his face.

"_The_… _furniture_…?" he tried uncertainly.

"_No, not the furniture_. _These things. What are they doing here?_"

"_Your Highness_…" Asnam quickly looked around the chamber, "…_I believe these are mostly Lord Malin's_ _belongings_."

"_If you say so_," Seymour crossed his arms over his chest. "_But why are they _here_, in this room?_"

Now, things were getting even more confusing. "_Um_… _because it's Lord Malin's_ _room_…"

"_No, it isn't_," the boy insisted in a slightly raised voice. "_Take them out_!"

"_But_ _would it be wise, Your Highness?_" said a tall man who had just appeared in the doorway; Asnam instantly backed away, relief written all over his face. "_After_ _all, Malin-san will be staying here for only a couple of more days. It would've been extremely inconvenient for him to_–"

"_It doesn't matter_," Seymour interrupted coldly. "_He can sleep in the grand bedroom down the hall, for all I care. Just get his things out of _here."

There was a short pause; the older servant had finally realized that the argument was lost before it even began. "…_Of course. Anything else Your Highness wishes us to_–?"

"_Yes_. _Hurry_."

* * *

He couldn't really blame the stupid, ignorant priest for storing his belongings right here, of all places, now could he? After all, none of these people had any idea of what they had done… but still, it should have _never_ happened. Which, of course, didn't change the fact that it _had_, and the mere thought of it was enough to make Seymour furious. How _dared_ this man live _here_?

It had always been _her_ favorite chamber, _her_ sanctuary. True, it might have been nowhere near as lovely as her bedroom––at least they had left _that_ chamber intact––and not half as beautifully furnished as her study, but she had always used to spend the rainy days _here_, in _this_ armchair, sometimes with a book in her lap, and sometimes simply staring at the fireplace with a distant, thoughtful expression he had never really liked.

Back then, all those years ago, he had rarely ventured into this place. Mother had always valued her privacy, and as much as her occasional indifference hurt, he had always tried not to disturb her too much, especially when she had wanted to be left alone. Besides, he had always preferred to play outside, at least when the weather had been decent enough… and on the rainy days, there had always been other things to do, such as getting one of the younger maids to play hide-and-seek with him, for example–

It seemed that _eternity_ had passed since that time. Back then, he had been but a mere child. And now…

He had no idea who he was now. Not an adult, all right. But definitely not a child, either.

Why did it have to be so confusing…?

The armchair no longer smelt of her perfume. Disappointed, he sat down, absently watching the servants walk past, carrying various things out of the room. Certainly somewhat uneasy in his presence, and perhaps also a bit irritated, they tried to work as quickly as possible. As soon as they were finished, he ostensibly locked the door behind them. He didn't really care how silly it looked. He just needed some time alone, and wanted to make sure that no one would disturb him.

His initial anger was gone rather quickly, washed away by a huge wave of bitter-sweet nostalgia, mixed with a much, much worse feeling of utter loneliness. Things were never going to be the same again, he had accepted this truth quite a long time ago. He _had_ moved on, just like he had been told to. His life, though as chaotic and pointless as ever, certainly wasn't over yet, and for that he was grateful. He only wished he would stop being helpless; he wanted to have enough power to control his own fate.

If he had been wiser_ back then_, he would have surely realized the consequences of her actions. If he had been a bit braver, he would have confronted her about the whole point of their journey. If he had been smarter, he would have tried reasoning with her. If he had been more independent, he would have stopped relying on adults before it was too late. Finally, if he had been more powerful, he wouldn't have to run away from _anyone_ or anything…

_Back then_, however, he had been none of these things. And so he needed to change, get rid of all his weaknesses. He needed to make sure that he would _never_ have to live through anything even vaguely familiar again.

* * *

Lost in his dreams and memories, he had entirely forgotten about the quick flow of time, until it was really late and Faris himself came knocking at the door, wondering loudly if everything was fine.

"_Come in_," the boy sighed, raising a hand to rub his tired eyes.

"_The door is locked from the inside, my lord_. _Shall I perhaps break it down?_"

"…_No_," Seymour blinked in response, and then finally remembered how to smile. "_Wait a second, will you?_" He quickly walked up to the door, noticing how stiff his body felt, as if he had dozed off for a while.

"_A storm is coming_," Faris announced calmly, as soon as he was able to step inside. "_I'd better close all the shutters_," he added, already making his way towards the nearest window. "_Hmm. And it's quite cold in here. The fire's almost died out_."

Seymour absently glanced at the fireplace; yes, the captain was right. Not only about the chill and the fire––he hadn't really noticed it until now, but the air smelt vaguely different than before.

"_See,_" he began softly, "_I _told_ you it would rain_."

"_Pity_," the man sighed. "_Well, in any case, we'll be staying here for at least a week, so_–"

"_A _week…?" he echoed.

"_Yes, Your Highness. I've already spoken to Orsa-san, he told me that their work should be finished in about five days_–"

"_But that's too long!_" Seymour hissed. "_You know that I want out of here as soon as possible._"

"_I'm afraid there's very little I can do_," Faris replied calmly, still trying to figure out why one of the shutters wasn't working properly. "_You should try to be patient, my lord_."

So that was it… The boy's shoulders sagged in defeat. True, there was very little any of them could do, besides, he also wanted the temple to be perfect, didn't he? _Didn't he?_

If she had really been dead, a splendid burial site wouldn't have mattered this much…

If she had _really_ been dead.

Because she wasn't.

Not quite.

"–_you hungry, my lord?_"

Shaking his uneasiness away, he was finally able to hear Faris' last question. It took him a couple of seconds to realize what was being asked, and a few extra ones to find an answer.

"_I guess so_…" He raised a hand to his stomach. "…_Actually, I'm starving_."

"_No wonder_," the man laughed. "_A boy your age, my lord, is always hungry, and you haven't eaten pretty much anything since, what, breakfast? I'll send someone to the kitchen and we'll see what_–"

"_I want to sleep here, Faris_," he blurted out suddenly. There was a brief pause, and the captain eventually turned away from the window.

"_I expected this much_," there was no surprise in his voice, only seriousness. He carefully looked around. "_What was this place? Lady Avalon's_…"

"…_Her favorite room_," he finished quickly, just to avoid further questions. And Faris seemingly understood.

* * *

He had thought that spending the night here would make things easier, but it had soon proved to be a huge mistake. First of all, there was a storm raging outside––no real thunderbolts or anything, just tons of plain rainwater banging against the windows, which was already bad enough. Then there was his bed, or the lack thereof. Not willing to move any extra furniture into the room, he had decided to sleep in the armchair, which, in the long run, had turned out to be slightly less comfortable than expected, as far as some _real_ nap was involved.

Then again, maybe it wasn't the armchair at all. Maybe it were simply his memories that kept him awake in the middle of the night, pacing around the dimly lit chamber.

Most of them were quite happy, really, filled with sleepy mornings and lazy afternoons, colorful books and a couple of favorite toys, climbing trees in the garden and 'unintentionally' running through every single puddle in his way, much to his caretaker's frustration. And there had also been _her_ gentle, comforting hands, and her low, quiet voice when she had read him stories…

He had lived in his own, peaceful world, rarely questioning his father's absence, or his mother's increasingly strange behavior. Too bad it hadn't lasted for long… Suppressing a small sigh, Seymour slumped to the floor in front of the warm fireplace. A moment later he was already sprawled on his back, staring up at the ceiling with a pair of blank, tired eyes. The rain kept pounding outside, its presence almost reassuring, and the boy's head slowly rolled to the side, away from the cracking logs.

There was something vaguely white glistening under the huge armchair, something like… paper, barely visible in an equally small gap. Seymour just stared at it for a couple of minutes, wondering if it was even real and worth getting up for. Probably not, but then again, he really _was_ bored, and sleep wouldn't come no matter what, so…

Slipping his fingers into the gap hadn't been easy, which was why he tried pushing the armchair away… only to find out that it wouldn't bulge, as if glued to the spot. Now positively curious, he dropped to his knees once again, and after several unsuccessful attempts he was finally able to pull out a slightly crumpled piece of paper… which looked too good to be discarded as mere rubbish. What was it, then? Some secret document, belonging to that Malin priest? Seymour carefully unfolded the page. And froze.

It was _her_ handwriting. And one look at the opening paragraph instantly told him that he was holding a letter. A letter addressed to his father, one that had never been sent. The date read clearly: the 27th of the Fower Month.

Only two days before their final departure to the continent.

* * *

End of Part Five

* * *

Coming up next - Part Six: _Interlude: Her Reason_

* * *

Author's Notes:

Oh, boy… it took me forever to rewrite this chapter, and I guess I'm not very pleased with the result – whenever I think of the final paragraph, I can't help but cringe. How come that _nobody_ was able to discover Avalon's letter before? What a convenient plot twist, huh? Yeah, right, the gap was tiny, and the armchair wouldn't bulge, and you needed to press your cheek against the floor to see the paper hidden underneath- …Damn. There excuses are pathetic. :)) …But then again, a secret hiding place in the wall would've been just as cliché… and much more difficult to describe.

So, um, what do you think about this chapter in general? Hopefully, I wasn't _that_ bad. :)

PS: In case you've been wondering… 'Flower Month' is supposed to be April, whereas 'Harvest Month' (anybody still remembers the first part?) was naturally meant to be August. :)


	6. Interlude: Her Reason

Author's Notes: Hi, everyone, welcome to the newest update, namely '_Ultimate Angst, Chess and Politics for Dummies_'. :)) …No, seriously, it _is_ about politics, chessboards and PMS. :D And about Avalon's reasons. Sort of.

Did I just scare you? …Good. Before we start, though:

As usual, I'm terribly sorry for the delay. The oncoming winter session, exams, social life and inborn laziness, you name it; it all stood in my way. Not to mention, I had a lot of problems with the structure of this chapter; the freaking thing had to be rewritten, what, five times in a row…? Yeah, something like that. I lost half of my hair in the process. And the final result is not as pleasing as I would like it to be. Akhem.

Neko Kuroban, Silver Chaotic, He-loves-me-not – I'm very, _very_ happy that you're still interested in this story. SilverMist23, Valex – thanks for joining the show. Silvie-chan...

Silvie-chan, this particular update, imperfect or not, is dedicated to you. For obvious reasons. I know just how much you like Seymour's mother... so there, perhaps you'll enjoy reading this chapter. My interpretation of Avalon – or Analéa, if you prefer ;) – is naturally a bit different from the one you presented in your awesome '_Wish Upon a Star_'… but, please, don't flame me too hard, ok? (…And, hopefully, you won't accuse me of plagiarism, either… :P)

PS: Everyone, I'm sorry about the italics and the present tense. It was a matter of consistency, of course. All flashbacks in my fic are written this way.

* * *

Part Six

_Interlude: Her Reason_

* * *

_Avalon de C'renaville, a thin, pale woman in her early thirties, sinks deeper into her favorite armchair, fists unclenched, breathing soft and relaxed. The fleecy, woolen blanket tickles her cheeks; she absently rolls her head to the side, towards the open window. Five weeks after _Shunbun_, the vernal equinox, most nights on Baaj are still chilly, filled with the steady rumble of the ocean, whistling winds and the stifling, overpowering scent of vanilla. The rainy season ended but a few days ago; it left the island in a cacophony of thunderbolts and clattering shutters, sailed southwest, heading for Mi'ihen Plains and Luca. Ever since then, the green hills of Baaj have slowly been turning into a small paradise, drying up, steaming, blooming…_

_Blooming vanilla is not enough to kill a mixture of other, equally distinct scents, which fill the silent chamber. Mint, juniper, chamomile…_ _Scents that have always been, and will always be, associated with medicine. Avalon sighs, raises a hand to rub her nose, pauses to stare at her smooth fingers. Meanwhile, a big, brownish moth flies into the room, past the silky curtains, towards a large, mahogany desk. For a couple of undecided moments it hovers over the dark top, over a white sheet of paper that lays there._

_The candles keep on burning; their warm flames tremble slightly. So do the smooth fingers._

_The woman in the armchair frowns._

_Tragedy is for the weak, she thinks, as her hand falls down; for fools, those who resign themselves to their fate without a single word of protest, much like _she_ once did, all those years ago. The brave do not despair, they do not surrender. The brave act. Always. Even if their decisions are dictated by necessity. Even if their choices are limited. Even if they are given no choice at all, forced into a dead-end situation…_

…_'a voluntary exile'. They, the Guado, always used this particular term, completely ignoring the lack of willingness on her part. Jyscal wasn't so ignorant, of course, she made sure of that before she left; made sure many, many times_ – **…Avalon, please, don't start that again, I know how you feel, trust me, I understand your objections, you have the right to be scared, that's enough, don't raise your voice to me…** – _but, in the end, it didn't really matter. So what if he sympathized with her?_ _If it pained him to say goodbye?_ _The regret she saw in his eyes was genuine, she is certain of that, even now, and yet…_ _it didn't stop him from making up his mind in less than half a week. From giving orders – eyes calm, face unreadable – no other person could give. No, she recalls, the damn bastard didn't even think twice, didn't even hesitate. Although he should have._

_Avalon de C'renaville smoothes out the woolen blanket, pulls it up to her neck, careful to_ – **take care of yourself, my lady, you mustn't catch a cold, really, in your condition it might prove fatal**_ – keep herself warm. The moth, wings burnt at the edges but still relatively untouched, settles down for a short while, inches away from the white sheet of paper; stops moving._

_It was all his idea, his decision, his responsibility. His mistake. A fatal one._ _Naturally, a small, rational part of her knows just how unfair this judgment is. Jyscal's choices have never been his own, he is only a king on the chessboard of Human and Guado politics, an important, yet surprisingly powerless piece._ _And, having been brought up on this chessboard as well, being but a piece herself, Avalon is perfectly, painfully aware of that. Aware that, until the rules change, the actual game will be carried out by someone else, by the two queens. Bevelle and the Council. No one else. And the Council, the Guado…_ _it seems that they had made up their mind long before Jyscal ever did, swore to get rid of her at any cost; threatened to forsake their allegiance – not directly, of course – to instigate a rebellion… resorted to economic, political and emotional blackmail…_

_No, she cannot really blame her husband_ – **it was all their fault, their idea, damn you all, you pompous, racist bastards, not his, never** – _and yet she does. She blames him for his weakness, for meaningless vows and promises that could never be fulfilled. She wishes he had been more adamant. More of a maester, less of a coward._

_He… had a choice, hadn't he? A difficult one, that's for sure, but_ _a_ choice_, nonetheless, something_ she _never had. And he chose what he thought was best for everyone…_

_Everyone but_ them. _A wife. And a child. Mere pawns who happened to restrict the queens' movements. An obstacle that needed to be eliminated, shifted to a different square. Because the chessboard is no place for love, family ties and moral values. Here, in the world of the upper-class, there's no good or evil, only profit and loss, power and the lack of thereof, wealth and poverty. Only politics._

_They wanted her dead, she knows, those cunning Guado vultures, caught up, hopelessly entangled in their sacred, ancient tradition of dubious, inhuman virtue and honor_ – **oh, for Yevon's sake, why can't they see that the world's changing, Jyscal, why can't they understand?** – _along with her son. Wanted them dead, sent to the Farplane, forgotten; _**just another one of His Majesty's fleeting romances, a whim, a fancy, perverted desire and a child, born against law and nature, a meaningless bastard, it happened in the past, Your Majesty, we can deal with it, we will deal with it, accidents happen.** _Yet they couldn't even lift a finger. Wouldn't even lift a finger. They are far too clever for that._

_Avalon smiles; eyes cold, pale lips curled into an unpleasant, mocking grimace. Ah, yes, she's not ignorant, understands _exactly_ why everyone needs her here, in the middle of nowhere;_ _why the Guado decided to keep her son alive, even though his very presence seems to infuriate them so. It's all very simple, really._

_One thousand six hundred and fifty-eight miles, which separate Baaj from Guadosalam, are enough for the Council to pretend that Avalon de C'renaville doesn't even exist, along with her inconvenient child. Enough to forget about the whole '_awkward incident_', to fall into a well-known routine. To imagine that His Majesty has never been married, that he can marry again anytime he wants (…and why not, she thinks bitterly; after all, it's perfectly logical, at least considering their customs), and that there has never been a son, a rightful heir to the throne. Here, on Baaj, the little prince is no longer a burden to his father. Not a threat to anyone's interests, plans regarding_ _the dynasty. As good as dead._

_Ah, but here comes the tricky part: he isn't dead. And neither is Avalon de C'renaville. No, they're both _alive_. Tangible and real, they do exist – and so does the union between the Church and the Guado, the extremely important alliance of inestimable value, advantageous to both parties, bought at a low cost of one woman, a boy… and a couple of meaningless servants._

_Convenient, isn't it…?_

_The union is all about power and money, nothing else. The Church gains a lot of influence, jobs for the clergy, new followers –_ **…naturally, my lady, they can believe in anything they want, keep bowing to these damn trees and worship their ancestors as much as they want, as long as they pay appropriate taxes…** _– not to mention new trade routes, or access to Spira's oldest libraries. The Guado, on the other hand, get their much needed financial support, subsidies and duty concessions, a remarkable economic boom and–_

_And Avalon? What did she gain? What does she have? Besides frequent headaches and panic attacks, of course?_

_Daughter to a politician, wife to a politician, does that make her any less human? Does that oblige her to submit to some 'greater good', blindly, without protest…? Does she have no right to normal, human desires? Is she supposed to give up on living, entirely? …No, of course not, she wasn't born to become nothing but a pawn in some grand political scheme, and neither was her son – a child growing up in the shadow of power struggles, intrigues, alliances… and ubiquitous intolerance. So far, she has managed to keep him relatively safe, untouched by the world's cruelty. She wants to protect him forever. And yet she is unable to._

_Jyscal,_ _she thinks, knuckles white, hands clenching, crumpling the blanket's rough fabric; you have no right to do this to me, no right to do this to us. We are not your trump card in your dealings with Bevelle. We are your_ family_. Nothing less._

_No, Jyscal had no right to force her into this. Still, for years, she has been deluding herself with his promises, convinced that this exile was only temporary, that it – _**…is not a death sentence, I've already told you that, darling, please, be reasonable, the continent isn't safe for the both of you, you have to understand, you have to agree…** _– would only last a couple of months… years, at best. That, as soon as the situation in Macalania became stable, everything would go back to normal; that she would return to Guadosalam, lead the life she once led, watch her son grow up and–_

_–and, of course, she never will. There is no more hope, she knows, neither for her nor for her child. Jyscal's most recent letter, the one she received exactly three weeks ago, was much, much longer than usual, almost apologizing in tone. Almost. Above all, though, it was wonderfully insightful._

_They are supposed to remain on Baaj_ **for as long as necessary, an unknown period of time, until the situation clarifies itself. **_Ah, but she is no fool, she can read between the lines just as effectively as he can conceal the truth with fine words. The real meaning of his letter is obvious. At least in her case._

_She cannot afford to be patient, cannot wait 'until the situation clarifies itself'. She does not have 'an unknown period of time'. No, she is dying, slowly brought to her knees by an incurable disease, by_ **blood cells that do not grow properly, my lady, but remain within the bone marrow and continue to reproduce in an uncontrolled way. **_Jyscal doesn't know, of course, she has never bothered to inform him of her illness, swore all servants to secrecy. She doesn't want to complicate things, just as much as she doesn't need his pity. Shame and compassion wouldn't change a thing. She can't leave the island. Period._

_Of course, it isn't about her all at. She had already accepted her fate, to a certain extent – she has known about her illness for six months now, and six months is a lot of time, especially in a place like this, where there's never much to do, aside from thinking. Objectively speaking, what difference does it make if she dies here, in this lonely paradise, surrounded by rain and vanilla, or in a lovely, four-poster bed in Guadosalam? No, her feelings – hate, anger, despair, frustration – are of no importance._

_It's all about Seymour._

_What will become of him, after she is dead? Will he be forced to spend his whole life – and he's only ten, for Yevon's sake…! – on this damned island? Alone and completely powerless, cursing her name until the day he dies, much like she keeps cursing her husband? What does 'as long as necessary' mean? When will 'the situation clarify itself'? In four, five years? Ten? Twenty? Never? Will he ever see the continent again? See what a true life might look like? Or will he eventually become_ too inconvenient _for everyone, his own father included? Die at some assassin's hands? Commit suicide, of out sheer despair? Ah, wouldn't_ that_ be so much more reasonable than living on false hope for the rest of– That's enough!_

_Avalon takes a deep breath, tries to calm herself down. She has been through all these scenarios many times before, ever since the good doctor decided to be honest with her _– **…there's nothing I can do, my lady, I'm terribly sorry, please, forgive me…** – _ever since she opened Jyscal's letter. Not that she blames any of them for their straightforwardness, of course. How could she? Now, at least, her situation is clear. And she has no more delusions._

_If only she wasn't so helpless, _dying_… If only her husband's words weren't so definitive… Then, perhaps, she would have found the strength to fight for herself, for her son. Perhaps she would have resolved to remain patient. But no, there is no hope, no strength, no patience left._ _She has reached the final bend of her path._

'The brave do not die in silence'_ – a quote from a book… or is it something her father said, a long, long time ago…?_

_No, if she truly has to die – _**death, in itself, is not a tragedy, no one can escape their final journey to the Farplane** _– than why should she die _here_, like this, abandoned, lost and forgotten? In vain, in her own bed, torn by regret, driven mad by anxiety, for the son she would have to leave behind, for his fate, cursing her own powerlessness–__? No! She mustn't_ _leave her child all alone, in this hellish paradise… condemn him to despair, solitude…_ _Four or forty years of _'_temporary_'_ exile, what does it matter? He will _never_ make it without her. He will never… forgive her. And she…_ _she can't sink into oblivion, either; yet another piece, a woman to be ignored…_

_A limited choice she has, but a choice it is. And she has already made up her mind. She will take her fate, her son's fate, into her own hands. Turn their meaningless existence into a beautiful sacrifice. Show them all – Jyscal, everyone – what she is capable of. What her child is capable of. Together, they will bring a new Calm to Spira, go down in history, stay alive forever. In death, in statues, legends. In people's memories. As saviors._

_As martyrs._

_And _that_ will be like a slap in Jyscal's face. Her revenge, final laugh from beyond the grave, perverted delight, the last act of defiance… Yes, let him choke on his guilt, let him suffer, howl in regret – for regret he will, she knows him all too well, she–_

_–feels like crying. Like howling in frustration and choking on her fear. She restricts herself to biting through her lips, though. There is a brief stab of pain, some blood that can be easily licked off. The doctor will won't be pleased, of course. She doesn't care._

_The brownish moth flies by, towards a different candlestick. Avalon watches it move, with unseeing, indifferent eyes. Then she stands up._

_Yes, she knows exactly what to do. There isn't much time left – two months, to be exact, until the rains return to the island and sailing becomes impossible – and there probably won't be any second chances. Next year, it may already be too late. It doesn't matter, though, for everything is almost ready. The day after tomorrow, her life as a maester's wife will come to an end. And after the pilgrimage starts… there will be no time for farewell letters or regrets. Which is why _tonight_ is her last chance to tell her husband how she really feels. To write down her every single thought, every regret, unfulfilled wish… to make him understand. Tonight…_

…_she feels tired, so very, very tired –_ **…is perfectly normal, my lady, given your condition, please, you mustn't overexert yourself, or else the disease will progress quicker, I'd rather you stayed in bed from now on, it's for your own good, really, so how can you tell the doctor it's out of question…** _– yet cannot afford to rest, must overcome her weakness. She walks up to the table, leans her palms against the smooth top, bends forward; dark hair falling down in a torrent of chestnut and chocolate strands –_ **I love the touch of your hair, darling, have I already told you that? yes, hundreds of times, ah, what are you doing, it tickles, stop laughing…!** _– brushing against the page, casting a shadow over the single word written at the top of her -unfinished? unstarted?- letter._

'Beloved…'

_Avalon touches the paper, hesitates. She… has been the one to choose this word, hasn't she? Does it still reflect her feelings, after all these years? Or is it merely an empty sound, a meaningless cliché used between married couples? A nice start for her final, farewell confession, so much better than a cold, polite 'Dear Jyscal', or a heated, sarcastic 'Your Majesty'…?_

_She picks up the thin sheet, walks up to the nearest chair. The seat is nowhere near as comfortable as the armchair. Nowhere near as warm._

_She's no longer certain, but…_ _she thinks she may love him, even now. Oh, sweet Yevon, with eleven years of marriage, lies and betrayal, wrong choices and lost opportunities, is it even possible…? Apparently so. Of course, her feelings haven't remained exactly the same, changing from a naïve, girlish infatuation to a much darker, complex emotion._ Hassliebe_, it's called in her native tongue; a term which does not exist in the common language, and one can only wonder why. Love wrapped up in hate…_ _or is it the other way around?_

_Shoulders tense, fingers locked, she leans forward, resting her chin against the back of her hand. The ink smells of violets and pokeberries._

_At the beginning, she recalls, there was no hate. Anxiety, perhaps. Mutual distrust, but that was to be expected. Hesitation, cultural differences, limits they both needed to overcome. Unsolvable mysteries that had to be solved. High expectations, harsh reality, difficult compromises._

_Lust and desire._

_He… used to love her, too, didn't he? He didn't ask her hand in marriage in the name of some unspeakably important alliance – that part came afterwards – he married her, because he…_

**-always thought you were special, let them say whatever they want, I cannot live without the sound of your voice-**

…_wanted to. She likes to think that raison d'état played a minor part in this. And she…_

**-must have married him out of greed, it's obvious, for money, why else, look at that necklace, sapphires and white gold, it must've cost fortune, for power, she's always been like that, look at her face, she's bursting with pride, I don't envy her, though-**

…_has always treated their marriage as a sort of a wild adventure, a journey into the unknown, literally and figuratively, a rebellion against the fossilized rules of her class…_

**…against common sense**, _her father eventually said, fingers twitching, as if he truly wanted to raise a hand to hit her. The blow never came, of course; there were only words, disappointment and contempt. She ran out of the mansion, back then, ran away like a child, furious and ashamed, into another man's arms, into his touch, tender caress, loving gaze_…

_Yes, Jyscal must have loved her once, a long, long time ago. Still, love was not enough, she thinks, straightening herself up, reaching for a quill. Noble intentions, dreams and desire, everything in vain. They _both_ lacked common sense. Ran out of luck. Lost against reality. And if all their dreams have crumbled to dust, what is left?_

_Dispelled illusions. A feeling of loss. Bitterness and regret._

_It's time to wake up._

_There is a small, porcelain clock on the fireplace, nothing but an old piece of junk in the servants' opinion; its hands move with a great deal of effort, grating against each other every time they meet. Some maid would have already thrown it away, yet Avalon likes the funny, bulbous face, so out of place with the rest of her impeccably furnished chamber. Besides, the ancient device still works, as accurate as any other clock in the palace._

_The hands scrape, suddenly, unexpectedly; Avalon stirs in her chair, startled. Five hours till sunrise, five hours to write down her final goodbye. Tomorrow, there will be only packing, sleeping the night off, long walks to the beach, supervising the servants, trying to avoid Seymour's difficult, unsettling questions… These five hours are all she will ever have._

_So little time… ah, but there's never enough time for_ anything_. Eleven years ago, she didn't have enough time, patience and self-control to argue with her father. Now, she doesn't have enough time, enough… courage to make her son understand– for he is still too young, sweet and innocent…_ _so how can she tell him the truth? How can she explain that this pilgrimage is the only thing she can give him? The only way, her parting gift? Their only salvation?_

_Five hours till sunrise. The quill feels heavy in Avalon's fingers, as if it was made of wood, but she knows it must be her imagination._

* * *

'_…and I shall pray that you will miss us, beloved. Farewell._'

…Then there was only her signature at the bottom – thin letters; an uncharacteristically pointed 'v', a very simple 'n', no flourish – and the page ended. For the fourth time this night, it ended with dozens of unanswered questions, hundreds of guesses, thousands of objections. With a sense of injustice, anger and utter frustration. With a faint scent of dust and violets.

The boy in the armchair lowered his hands, took a deep breath. Then another one, equally deep, equally suffocating. It didn't help. Nothing would. Neither tearing the letter to pieces, nor biting through his lips. Screaming. Cursing. Walking up to the window, leaning over the sill, diving into the pouring rain… no, that would only result in pneumonia. It was all useless, really.

Running away from the truth was useless, too.

As was fighting against it.

Three years ago, in Zanarkand, during his desperate attempt to get out of the City, he had fallen on his face, and discovered that he hadn't had enough strength to get up, no matter how hard he had tried. After a few unsuccessful attempts he had simply given up trying. It would be impossible to describe what he had felt back then, as he had laid there, motionless, for hours, with his eyes open and lips slightly parted, watching the sun sink between two unbelievably tall buildings. And it would be equally impossible to imagine what he had felt upon waking up, still in that very same position.

Still unable to move.

It was a feeling he would never forget. Right now… he felt exactly the same.

His mother… couldn't have written this letter_–_! His mother… had never been such a cynical, embittered… such a desperate woman. She would have never chosen… pride over reason, self-righteous indignation over…

…hope? '_…your letter has left us no hope, beloved, and so I will act accordingly, by taking our fate into my own hands…_'

'Our fate.' Hers. And his. No guilt, no regrets. Without a single word of explanation she had passed a sentence, dragged him into her spectacular suicide, led to Zanarkand, to…

'_…glory and happiness he will never achieve in life, because you will never give him a chance. And such a life, completely devoid of hope, would be utterly pointless. Tragic._

_Death, in itself, is not a tragedy. Sometimes_, _it is the only solution_.'

And… why? What right did she have to assume that she had chosen '…_a lesser evil, just like_…' his father had, supposedly, all those years ago? His father, who '…_condemned him, turned him into yet another one_…' of his marionettes? Whatever that was supposed to mean?

Raison d'état, fatalism and hypocrisy, vague allusions and unclear parallels… no, Seymour didn't understand much of his mother's letter. There were some points, though, that he could comprehend. Points that were obvious, even to him.

Some things were never meant to happen.

His parents' marriage had been one of these things.

…No wonder the letter had never been sent, he thought suddenly, sharp fingernails almost cutting through the thin paper. It was… chaotic, too personal… filled with so much hate, anger and suffering that it literally hurt. And even if his father was a '_heartless bastard, putting his_ _own interests over_ _everything else_' these words _would_ have hurt him. Deeply.

Just as much as they hurt _him_. Then again, perhaps his mother had been right, and discovering the truth was better than living in a shadowy kingdom of illusions. Perhaps it was okay for the soap bubble to burst.

The storm was already dying down; the droplets had become soft and quiet, no longer a wild, insane staccato. Seymour slowly unclenched his fists, smoothed out the slightly crumpled paper, set to reread the letter for the fifth time. Even though he already knew its content by heart.

* * *

End of Part Six

* * *

Coming up next – Part Seven: _Sealing the Past_

* * *

Author's Notes:

So, have I just created a monster? ;) Are you going to flame me now? For writing about love, egoistical reasons and, say, perverted delight one can only find in revenge…:)) For making my Avalon slightly insane? (…Four years of constant worry can do that to a sensitive person, I guess.)

Before you start arguing with me, however, I believe that I owe you a couple of slightly random explanations. :))

1) The term 'Hassliebe' does, in fact, exist; I didn't make it up for the purpose of this fic. :) It's a German word, and its meaning doesn't differ that much from the one Avalon gives you. Btw, the Germans have some of the best words in the world. Such as 'Schadenfreude', for example. My favorite one. Hope you know what it means. :D

2) Speaking of non-English terms and their meanings… 'shunbun' translates as 'the vernal equinox', of course. And it's a Japanese word this time. My, my, who would've guessed…:P

3) Avalon writes her letter towards the end of the Flower Month (April), in a chamber '_filled with the stifling, overpowering scent of vanilla_'. Now, truth to be told, vanilla doesn't bloom until May. It was a deliberate mistake on my part. Sure, I could've written: 'orchids' instead of 'vanilla'… but that would've been too vague and, besides, I like this particular scent. :))

4) Can you guess the name of Avalon's illness….? Well, it's leukemia. Not necessarily a lethal disease, but if we consider Spira's medical backwardness… Oh, well. Hope it makes at least some sense.

* * *

Reviews, anyone...? Flames and criticism? Would you humor an old lady? (…it's only three days till my twenty-first birthday, dammit…) Would you correct some of her most outrageous vocabulary/grammar mistakes? Well, in any case, thanks a lot for reading my stuff! See you around in the final (yes, this time it probably _is_ final) chapter. :))


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